the poetry of Charles Fry

21 October 1996

Man my heart tears.
Why does he cut it so.
I said friends and he said something else.
Does any one understand what's going on?
Who's the authority on knives around here anyway?
Sergai the king is safe with his briefcase in Russia by now.
The jive's the game and my crooked fingers need twice as much blood.
I'd lean on a cane if I hadn't traded it in for two railroad ties.
And they're two heavy for the collar of my new white shirt.
Gotta use more starch next time.
Less on my heart though.
Then maybe it wouldn't tear so fragily.
Buy a rubber heart or something, cheaper than soul.
Bounce around like a baby porcupine.
Hold my needles in all tight around me so they don't break off.
Cause yeah, it'd scare you so bad if I held them all up.
Three hired professionals just to count them.
Two flat bed trailers to haul them a way.
And one pear tree to hang them all from.
Christmas is almost here, so that'll be good preparation.
Prepare to rejoice.
The hour of your deliverance is eleven or twelve.
In time to eat anyway.
Whatever else is all torn up by then.
Then no one will need to do anymore cutting.

Copyright © 1996 Charles Fry