mine is a muscle that makes a songthat never stops its playing;
quickly, slowly, short & long.
Some sing of troubles brought by it straying,
some say that for fear it had stopped;
its rooms are several but it’s furniture none,
in moments of dread it has dropped.
It carries and pushes and pumps for its fun.
It quiets and thunders and in love it breaks.
It flutters and jumps, gets worn on the sleeve
and taken to task by the tales of its ache.
Yet it stays where it dances and does not leave;
never undoes its pitter or patter,
for want of a rhythm is, for it, all that matters.
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