From the Zoo, Curiously

by Matthew D. Rowe

We mustn’t let ourselves

become wrapped up in these instances.

 

Luckily my heart is pounding

at one million beats per minute.

Finally,

I may smoke in bed.

 

You,

on the corner block,

swimming just barely

above shame.

 

You,

kept like a parrot,

or realtor,

pronouncing spites of normalcy.

 

You,

in the balcony,

directing a tragedy.

 

Loathing,

smelling flowers,

tasting the sweet,

curded milk

of Mother Nature’s tit.

It will go away.

 

The sun will fall.

Heart attack.

Resuscitation.

Another man’s organ.

Different glow and same heat,

never what it seems,

might as well forget it.

Might as well never have happened.

 

Flowers wilt,

because the water dries,

because the new light doesn’t know better.

Sewage in the streets,

because a paycheck’s more important,

because the doctor said,

“Take this for ten days,

and stay in bed for three.”

Because you rebelled,

and took them all at once.

Left,

clouds for vision,

mulch oxygen.

 

Now someone else

must sweep the floors,

tuck in,

read bedtime stories,

publish,

furnish,

smoke in bed.

 

You,

procrastinator with the iron fist.

Because of you,

hearts pound

millions of beats

per minute.

 

Your hearts.

 

Your beats.

 

Your minutes

now.

 

But this,

this is my instance.

 

Because of you

mortality,

encapsulating mortality.

 

Advertisements