The man next door who bawls at our dog
Glares from his porch with jaws ajar.
His heart like china swaddled in straw
Imagines a doctor bent to explore
The bulge of the thing, the chill of the thing
Struck deaf and dumb, forgetting to stir.
On Sundays he swarms, glossing the roof,
The nose, the gaudy warm flanks of his car.
Teetering over the perfect motor,
He nuzzles his head in the ladylike hum
Of the thing that never while he attends
Can be imagined forgetting to stir.
But some gray Sunday to come, I picture
The lazy exhaust, the glittering cold,
While he lies bunched like a rag on the hood,
His china blue heart cracked in his jaws,
The motor beneath him, deaf and snug,
Humming on velvet for hours, forever.
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