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Quarried


by strannikov


A child let loose a chosen cantaloupe,
rolled it right down the ice cream-frozen aisle
for a strike: bounced off the back of a boot,
it toppled no pins and earned him no score.
I was the one who was wearing the boots,
I'd worn them once in a cold Carrara quarry
where marble was cut as cleanly as fruit
from the guts of that Tuscan earth yielding them both.
I thought to give the child a good kicking,
but I could not guess at the thickness of his hide,
he hid behind his mom, hugging her marble thighs.
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