I return lack-lustered from the

quarry, back busted. My

wife’s over yonder folding

family linens, smelling like

straw-hats and maple leaves;

they dry by dusty gusts in

lonely old Stone City.

The quarry’s crags

troll with the snaking

road ‘till the big city,

where my sweaty stones are sold.

My wife makes a savory batch

mashed potatoes and briskets.

just as I reach for the water pitcher,

liquor pours into my highball

glass. a sniff; a swig; I share

with my wife before we

go to sleep, because tomorrow,

my weary body will break

rocks; the old quarry never runs

 out of rocks in

lonely old Stone City.