moe's rocks

my old dog
had a thing
for bringing home
rocks. it gave
him some strange
comfort to have
them in the house.
all sizes,
all shapes
and forms. he'd
carry them
in his mouth and
proceed to bury
them in corners,
beneath the
couch, or table
or a lifted
edge of rug.
three, four
five rocks could
be found at any
time. they were
of no use to
him, not really,
but the next
day, he brought
in more. occasionally
i'd throw them
all back into
the yard while
he stood there
staring at me,
dumbfounded with
a look of dismay
upon his face.
i tried hard to
see how this related
to my own life,
and came up with
something so
disturbing that
i shook it off,
and left the next
rock that he
brought in from
the yard alone.