Canto CXIX

The heart is not the locus of the soul,
it’s just a meaty pump sat in the chest,
it keeps the hot blood flowing, plays its role

maintains its reps and never stops to rest,
as we blunder through our alloted days,
as fragile as a hatchling in its nest.

Two recent incidents argue the case—
the grand old Duke that went under the knife
to help extend his dicky ticker’s lease;

the boy that reached the end of his short life,
the short, sharp shank pierced through his pound of flesh,
to pay way over the Boxing Day sale price

for the ever present, branded leather swoosh.
I make no further comment of these two,
though you can make inferences if you wish,

I’ll simply leave this quaint advice to you
to get away from all this worldly din
and take a few moments to listen to

that blameless tempo, ticking on within.


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Jan 02, 2012 @ 00:00:13

    I like this write a lot (but who am I to judge) I like this write because the narrative is laid out in the first stanza and you stick with it and build on it throughout the poem.

    Inferences…Which news story got the biggest TV coverage?


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