The Nursing Home of Your Heart
by William Doreski

March 1, 2010


Pages torn from holy texts

drift in the strict winter dark.


Twelve more snowstorms and spring

arrives in a hustle of flowers,


like a funeral. You agree

that the erudite parts of me


will soon expunge themselves, sloughing

like the shells of cicadas.


You agree that I’ll imitate

those apple-cheeked old men


who love to tease the young girls

who ache like microwave ovens.


You even agree that my name

will soon be misspelled frequently


all over the Internet as men

young enough to know better


scour for the best free porn sites.

Was it you who tore the pages


from the holy texts and scattered

their miscellany to the wind?


All those gods confused as clouds

obscure the stars they inhabit.


Couldn’t you save a place for them

in the nursing home of your heart?


I know these senile metaphors

disgust you. I know that layers


of snow, when they thaw, will expose

the bones of cannibal banquets             


we both attended. You agree

that in the dark the pages


of scripture and secular texts

mate with reckless abandon,


and yet new snow will pulp them all

in a slush of gray elision.

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