Picked up from the sand
A slick storm-cloud gray rock.
Turned it over in my too-soft-to-be-a-real-man hands
And slid my fingers against the cool smoothness of it.
Strained to hear the years that had slid off –
Water grinding and shaping and sloughing each layer
Like a flood of confessions shared by an old man.
My crooked, stained teeth appeared in a quiet smile at the thought
Of skipping a rock across the water
Sending it on a detour from history.