Loose-Fitting Clothes

My doctor asked if I were a poet.

I was suddenly speaking in rhyme,

she said, “Turn your head and cough.”

“No, no” I said. “Everything’s fine.”

listening to my heartbeat,

studying my response,

she said, “what is this strange obsession?”

puzzled by my nonchalance.

a dozen rhymes spill from my pocket,

while searching for spare change.

a little posey, quickly forgotten,

that look in your eye, dark & strange.

mote of dust, tick of fluff,

studied with a delicate hand.

lost feather, a seashell, bit of bone,

a boy’s hidden treasure, tiny & grand.

The diagnosis was quick,

though treatment was by degree.

She dashed off the prescription,

the cure was worse than the disease?

A strange malady has befallen me,

my heart can break one more time!

The surprise was how easy it was,

I should see that as a sign.

She smiled, “Your numbers look fine.”

the good is up, the bad is down,

we’ll see you in a few months’ time,

that is -- if you’re still around.

I gather my things as

reality slides away.

the urgent ding, the world burns,

I stumble back into my day.

I want you to feel my heart one more time

make the tiniest thing grand,

lose myself in this madness,

one more touch of your hand.

One more breath out, and one

more in. Lay your hand

on my chest & just like that

we begin again.