Throwing Lemons at Hearts

A poem

Photo by author

Sometimes you
zoom in
up close and cellular.
To the little heart.
Not the phone type.
This microscopic organ:
a truth that
delusion refutes.
But you can’t live there
in that state.
Staying is death.
Its smallness suffocates.
Need more space
in the bed.
The eye twitching its
arrhythmiatic waves of
unoriginal sanctimony.
Told to keep
your mouth shut.
The benefit of such
not visible yet.
Lemon zest.
For the minute,
distraction and cats
and beauty
slay the three
of swords on the chariot.
The third parties growing
all stupidly quiet
like obedient, good girls
that take in the
scenery. Unseen.
Always ready with
keys between fingers.
Until the telephone wife
shows up, erased
by cruelty and shame.
Karma is a free trip, man.