It comes in the middle of the night
just when you realize
you forgot to lock the back door. 

Glass shatters and you recall
sandlot games when a home run meant
hiding in the bushes. 

Flick the bathroom light, find a hole.
Broken tiles, a strange rock.
You want to pick it up, but
TV has taught you to treat it
like a crime scene.
Better call the authorities.

No doubt, they’ll carry it away
to some undisclosed lab, study
what we’re not supposed to know. 

The reporter says it’s golden, heavy
as a can of soup, not radioactive. 

Neighbors in bathrobes scan their lawns
with metal detector eyes, eager to seize
a little tabloid fame, secretly wish
such things would fall
into their homes. 

They ask if you saw lights.
You want to say yes.
Maybe you will. 

Or maybe you remember
that piece of you still falling
into someone else’s life —
so sudden, so dangerous,
it had to be taken away.

Michael Beadle is a poet, teaching artist, magazine editor and freelance writer living in Canton, N.C. He is the author of two poetry collections, An Invented Hour and Friends We Haven't Met, and a poetry CD, Kaboom

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