1/15/2021

Ice is melting off the roof,
dripping onto the rocks
and digging a hole into the one
most like a boulder.
Most like the gut.

My car’s bumper is inches from it,
just out from under the protection of the roof—
the ledge.

Could it pierce a hole in the hood if I parked a little closer?
Bumper to brick.

Straight through to the engine?

It drips because today it’s warm,
tomorrow could be cold again,
and then it’d come to a halt.

1/15/2021

PoetryRiley Welch