I’ve been waiting lately for my heart to stop.
On a phobia survey, fear of a heart attack
ranks between fear of long words and fear of being
abused, but a bit ahead of fear of moths and butterflies.
Absent an EKG’s sour prognosis
or an ill warning from a palm-reader,
I’ve decided to blame it on Buddhist monks
who forgot to mention that introspection means
gazing through a telescope at a dull city
about to be blown to cinders. Imagine
pinning the self not in that gray, mushed-up rose
we call a brain but down in the guts, that knot
of subways, the car where God left
a briefcase full of explosives. See how
the latches gleam like your mother’s jewelry?
The route is familiar. The seats are warm.
Let us sit together until we were never here.