Caillou

 Caillou

 

I came across a sea washed rock,

lying in a pit, on the sand of Les Mouettes.

just a jot of water in its crater, it was chock

full of holes, pitted like an olive

but without pimento. So, a memento

and I stuffed it in the pocket of my shorts.

A meteorite, probably, I thought,

as damp breached cloth wet my thigh.

I didn’t chuck it back into the Atlantic,

but bought it home; it lies on my desk.

Of course they scoffed. No one witnessed

my find, they called me out for being drab,

a bland plodder, clodhopper, stone robber,

and even my cherished dog, Crab,

who only exists in a play I once read

but was fond of his frolics on the beach

sniffed at it once and walked away.

Back at the camp site, the living pray,

queue for gates to open, pools to fill,

sun to rise, clutching handfuls of toweling,

bellies pointed to the sky and growling.

Later that night, I’m making puzzles,

with panoramas ripped off jigsaw box-tops,

and the band plays; the bar rocks.