“In this house, it’s rubber bands,” he says,
standing at the kitchen drawer, “and rocks,” he adds.    

We could make slingshots, launch those pebbles
into space, make rain for rabbits in the yard.  Load rocks
into bike baskets to ward off vicious hounds.  Band
two rocks together, perhaps they’d reproduce, sandstone
rubbing igneous, voila! They’d morph, of course. 
Into circles of bands we could throw rocks—bullseyes! 
In our pockets, stones, in case we need to track
our journey with the witch and rubber bands to wad,
caress while she cackles.  Both can go in jars,
collectors’ items, the bands of uncertain provenance,
though some antiques survive in my mother’s button box. 
Decorate your large pet rock with bands, first paint them
many colors, the nine-banded Brazilian rock a focal point
among the hosta.  Rocky ballast for spindly schefleras,
rubber grist for the house wren set yet again on nesting
in my poor potted begonia.  Rocks to hold in place
the meditation pool, bands wriggling atop them,
artificial garter snakes.   

Rocks deconstruct, return to earth, the rubber bands
I think will last as long as roaches. At least they’re quiet
at night, no rustling wings disturb our dreams.