Today there is nothing
on the radio in my head
but the hotel radio is playing
Drops of Jupiter as my nausea
waits by the tracks for the rushing-by
to stop. Being in a train or a top forty
tune is like being caught in a lion’s
mouth that is still moving very fast.
I know I can’t really put on a body
other than my own. And I know
I can’t wear you forever, sick blanket,
or you, animal coat.
Children and doctors
are precise with their removals
of the heart and other
unmentionables. I am
after all, alive, with a hint
occasionally of their fluttering
knives. When sense stops coming
through and the station becomes
overrun with static, I get a
rubbed-the-wrong-way
anxiety-ticked, backlit feeling
that is high and whipping
like the wind reading Monday’s paper.
Nothing much in it if it comes at all—
I hope something is about to
pick me up in its mouth and run.