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.