Sometimes my heart is a liability,
a ticking mess trying to out guess
my density and my gravity.
It tries out attitude and platitude,
beats its lonely drum that only some
can hear, or it crashes, dashes,
smashes, like Sunday china
at a company picnic.
Sometimes my heart weighs on me
then plays on me a strange bit of tune,
or mumbles itself, humbles itself, takes
its place in line behind the abstractions,
those distractions I place ahead of it.
Sometimes a heart is another stale joke
waiting for a punch line, with its laugh
caught half way there, held in the air
as if there were time to spare.
And sometimes a heart is a reminder,
an echo, an explosion, a mirror, a minor
disturbance, a forgotten detail, a lengthy
address in a language we can only guess.