Sure, I'll play again. I have been writing more poetry, and actually toying with publishing a small book if I get enough good ones. This one is a true story from last month:

A block of old marble rests at the top of our driveway
Left here by previous tenants
I like to think it came from the corner
of an old bank building
or the cornice of some other neoclassical
public edifice
weathered and blotchy on the once-polished face
pointing skyward, fading to gravestone gray
stepped edges indicate sculptural lines
perhaps art-deco ornamentation
One side ends in a jagged crack
maybe a remnant of demolition
The rough texture of that rended edge
has softened with age and dirt


Last week I noticed a change
on this old bone from an extinct leviathan
Placed carefully atop the darkening polished face
three fresh turds, carefully extruded
by a passing coyote
My mind’s eye traces the expression
on the face of that hungry prankster
while squatting with intention
a sparkle in its eye
and a slightly smug lipsmack of ownership
as if to say, “I ate that rabbit, you schmuck,
the one that hid under your steps.
Now see if I don’t come back next week
to sniff out what else you’re hiding.”