Day of the Lord
You have this thing
that begins as a wave,
Hurried thing, it takes to task
the columns of unconvincing elation.
Ever present regardless of the wind
or the decisions of humane
individuals eager for motive,
and cause, and effect,
and things wrapped up
before the end comes
at warp speed.
but those set gazes,
those seriously powerful waves,
shoulders rolling fluid
like a final chorus cheer.
There is a syndrome called Poems
and another called Broken Heart.
I kid you not.
A friend of mine died from the first,
my son, almost from the second, and
being a mother and all of that,
I practically did myself,
die of a broken heart.
Stress cardiomyopathy, they call it,
those cardiologists who can speak the word
in full understanding and yet still be
ignorant of the fact that the heart is only
doing what it is meant to do.
Not break so much,
(that’s silly metaphor)
The left ventricle, to be exact.
Have you ever had a swollen heart?
If it ruptures you die.
most hearts go back
after a little cry and catch in the voice
and resume the regular beat and dissertation of fume,
nothing to show for it,
except to be a little stronger
maybe, but who knows?
Some hearts are more susceptible,
of this sort of thing.
Like the kid with the infectious smile,
hands anxious beneath the desk.
The radiant heat a shelter, the box of pencils anachronistic
before the backcloth of photo-stream and whir.