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.