My dumb heart thinks it knows something,
but really its tick is all flounder and worry, wallow and sorry.
A wall of it.
A waterfall of it.
Caterwaul and carnival.
Container ship and Holland Tunnel.
It’s a vessel with a bad idea.
Fat and slinking.
A car bomb.
A booty text.
Two many DJ requests.
Once it wanted a baby.
Another time it snuck out for a steak.
I try my best to slow it down,
talk it down,
beat it back,
eat it out.
But eventually, I give up.
I take her out, my specimen, my lover.
And when we get to the bar, I put her in the pickle jar on the counter.
I play a country song about a bad marriage and an old farmhouse
on the jukebox.
I shrug when the other customers point at her.
No idea, I mouth and then pucker my lips in mock sympathy.
And then I go into the bathroom to dance alone.