The trailer across the street burned down
And I am thankful for the winter. Clouds
Rolling in heavy sheets, the careful rustle of
An old McDonald's wrapper stuck in detritus,
Desperate to be free. The same loping circle.
Somewhere in this burdensome body lies
The facsimile of an old heart, beating incessantly
Despite my best interests. When I'm quiet I
Can hear it in my ears, warning me, a festering
Chronic ailment steeped in bronze. The heart is
The dog of our body, loyal 'til it's dead in the Ground. I buy Cook's at the corner store for
A celebration cultivated over time. Months
Alone, yearning atrophied into hoisting myself
Into cleaning the kitchen on occasional Sundays,
Pecked at by the black bird of entropy.