Heart

Heart 


He used to wake me up at 5 a.m., 
8 every Saturday and Sunday. 
I’d stare into the eyes of that skinflint angel

caressing the most dull-witted features 
of my morning thoughtlessness. 

All sorts of miracles occurred

throughout the day, tricks of the heart.

Then he bought me an alarm.

I knew a rook had made its nest in his trunk.

It was as if he’d moved me back and forth 
through dosshouses.  I couldn’t sleep. 
My friends said I resembled a comma. 
That was, of course, until I met Omar. 

He’d call me up at 5 a.m.,  
8 every Saturday and Sunday, and grunt 
like a grizzly without constraints. 
Why, my teeth would actually chatter, 
and my skin sounded like the roasting 
of a crackling pig. 

But my heart never did get over 
those everlasting Monday’s when Steve 
softly poked whatever cheek he’d choose 
to kiss that day and say: honey: wake up!