THAT JUKE BOX HEART OF MINE
I know I am because the juke box beats
me on. I can eavesdrop in on myself
as though a stethoscope hung from my ears
and loudspoke a bang-up ontology.
Having always hankered to know what I’m like
beneath the skin, I flip inside-out
and here I am, my revolving brain flaking
prisms of light on pairs of legs doing fine.
There was nothing to it; now I’m myself
and no mistaking: There glows my push-button
heart, that grand piano has a kidney look,
and my glands have thinned to crepe. –So easy
when you know how; won’t you be an inside-out-
er on the lam with me? devotee
whose everything works and nothing stops
till twelve o’clock when coach to pumpkin drops?