My Monophonic Heart
My monophonic heart
measures the weight of butterflies
with a beat. My monophonic heart
is as true as an out-of-tune fiddle.
It sings the tired tune of solitude
like an old rooster
on a rainy morning
in the middle of nowhere.
My monophonic heart
is waiting for tomorrow
as if tomorrow is a train
that will never come.
My monophonic heart
is an icicle without snow.
It’s a bud in spring
that doesn’t know
how to become a leaf.
My monophonic heart
is a bored child with thick glasses
picking his nose for hours
and sometimes my monophonic heart
tries to define itself
like a dog choking himself on a leash.
But really
my monophonic heart
is a scratched record skipping a beat—
it’s a dusty needle
filling in the grooves
with all this new noise.
Originally appeared in The Bitter Oleander
