Like a Revolving Door

Heart feels sad. He’s tired of being a heart

and wants to be a lung. A lung never lacks

a sister or brother. He wants to be a finger.

A finger always has a family. Or a spleen

which only feels anger and is never sad.

Sometimes Heart feels joyous, beats with vigor.

But then the old stories resurface again:

hardship, cruelty, the Human Condition.

A kidney never faces these problems alone.

The eyes in unison devise a third dimension.

Not by being solo do the ears create stereo.

But Heart must turn outward for comradeship,

to seek another heart, a journey fraught

with uncertainty. Like a revolving door—

such is falling in and out of love. And

the betrayals! Heart needs only to consult

his book of broken hearts to feel pessimistic.

But soon he puts on a fresh shirt and heads out

to the highway. He hangs a red valentine heart

from a stick so people will guess his business.

No matter that the sun is sinking and storm-

clouds thicken. Approaching headlights glisten

on his newly pressed shirt and on his smile

which looks a trifle forced. Dust catches in his hair

and makes him cough. Why is Heart alone in the chest?

Because hope is an aspect of the single condition

and without hope, why move our feet? To see himself

as purely a fragment: such is Heart’s obligation.

Let’s quickly depart before we learn what happens.

Sometimes a car stops. Sometimes there is nothing.

--Stephen Dobyns

I hope you enjoyed this poem as much as I did.