Lately, simple stones have taken on
the heft of enormous boulders.
It could be that our gravity has changed,
or that these rocks are newly made
of a matter with greater density.
I'm ever an enthusiast
for Greek myth, its stories penned far away
in fertile fields of elites bred
from the straying loins of finely flawed gods.
That's what I tell most, but I couldn't
tell you any details about twelve labors,
monsters taken, torn asunder.
Hercules must have shouldered his burdens,
I imagine, froth at the mouth,
drawing on his inner strength to support
the brunt of a weighty world's cares.
Or was that Atlas? The question may be
moot, examining my own thighs.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #109: beg, borrow, steal at Read Write Poem. This was a "wordle" prompt, click on the first link to see the 13 suggested words.