We carry our small griefs like stones in pockets.
We rub them smooth with worry, thumb their cold
solidity, and palm their petty weight.
At work, in restaurants, with husbands or with wives,
we warm them in our hands, their prattle low
and light against our thighs. Deep down, we know
there’s so much more to lose, that in the night
a telephone can ring, or a cry might come
from a darkened room and send us running
into a new and empty life. These stones
will spill across the hardwood floors, their rain
unnoticed in the stillness of the house.
—Rob Griffith
