Maybe Sisyphus lives
around here, still, in us
as huffing, wheezing, sweaty,
we push our rocks
up the hill to the top
not even stopping to rest
while the rock rolls gleefully back
down the hill where it waits
impatiently to be pushed back up.

Me, I say, Good bye, Rock!
I run away from the
demands of stubborn rocks.
Why do you want to go back
up that hill anyway, I ask.
The rock just stares and won't even
give me his name, rank, or serial number.

You've already been up that hill.
You've already rolled down that hill.
Don't you want to see another place?
I ask.
No. The rock shakes its head.
It wants its pension.
It wants to live on a rocky flat beach
where snakes shed their skins
on the rocks.

So, when the owl hoots at midnight
I'll leave this place.
There are other hills
and other rocks to roll
and I want to see them all.