My Heart

That Mississippi chicken shack.
That initial-scarred tabletop,
that tiny little dance floor to the left of the band.
That kiosk at the mall selling caramels and kitsch.
That tollbooth with its white-plastic-gloved worker
handing you your change.
That phone booth with the receiver ripped out.
That dressing room in the fetish boutique,
those curtains and mirrors.
That funhouse, that horror, that soundtrack of screams.
That putti-filled heaven raining gilt from the ceiling.
That haven for truckers, that bottomless cup.
That biome. That wilderness preserve.
That landing strip with no runway lights
where you are aiming your plane,
imagining a voice in the tower,
imagining a tower.

by Kim Addonizio

Comments (4)

Michael, I enjoyed this reflective writing on love and poetry, which really is I guess about your deep love of poetry. You took me along for the ride with the rythmn of your thoughts, I enjoyed the journey, it had the same effect on me, as my evening dose of filtered fine coffee, listening to some favourite classical music. I felt relaxed. Thank you for the meditation. I have taken it with me to read again. Regards Bob
What a walk we have been on along with you here Michael, into the land of poesy, then swept into the kingdom of love. Oh I adore being reminded that our very nature is one of love both for self and other. We need this reminder at least once a day. Keep up your 'walks' - we love to accompany you Michael.
A cunning pastiche, Michael. Hah hah
refreshing open verse, Michael. enjoyable read and effective end comment. -Tailor