to muscle grow a stone

the hands are rough and nicked up
the back and legs veined with the lift.

this is an abandoned city street,
the smell of burning garbage and industrial solvents
is light on the air. the half finished buildings,
cinderblock affairs, look down and live softly
shifting with lost or stolen pets or people.

how the boulder came to be in the street
I could not guess. The prometheus does not see me.

I squash the urge to help him for I do not understand
his mission, and, turning, I light a cigarette, his grunts deep and heavy, the voice of muscle tearing.
later it hits me: is that the center of the city?
a hammer of doubt at my back stops and I wrest it out of thought,
now I am going back to smash the rock.