poem

 Listening

It’s always been a bit of a joke

To see a surgeon wielding a stethoscope.

I wouldn’t know a murmur from a rumor

Of a cracked record's skipped beat.

I listen to my own heart

Though, when I’m alone

Or waiting at a stop light

Trying to decide which way to turn.

It’s good to know

Something inside is sure.

Doesn’t need to be told

When to race, when to cease.

I have to remind myself

To be kinder, more equable.

But the heart just beats

As fast as it needs.

I should listen more

To all the things of the world.

Like the trunk of this dying birch,

The rain drenched yard

Pushing up grass and clover,

Pulsing with surge after surge of sound.

I don't need this stethoscope to hear

The steady percussive thrum all around.

6/2/21