Issue 157, Winter 2000
I wake at night and pace
the length of my digestive tract
to where the path obscures
and all the animals belligerent and bored
who stare through the bars at Franklin Park
gather to watch, their eyes merciless.
They would eat the viscera first.
I kill them off with Zantac,
draw the blankets to my chin,
count the digital clock's REMs,
listen to the wind,
listen to the door with the broken latch,
listen to what my body used to do
behind my back:
the tinnitus that never turns off,
the trudging cadence of the heart.