This is heartbeat now—shadowbox, dinette
purchased with slow nickels, skittering mice
wedged beneath the stove, warbling their regret
like balladeers. This patchwork paradise
smells vaguely of impending sacrifice
and admissions of defeat. Better yet,
it stinks of chance, the brash tossing of dice.
This is heartbeat now—shadowbox, dinette,
paid for on time, such fashionable debt
for thin and collapsible merchandise
that’s prayed for, then thrown out. A safety net
purchased with slow nickels. Skittering mice
know no one will heed their feverish advice
even as they croon in doomed, blue quartet.
Their soundtrack of the slum, fractured, concise,
intent beneath the stove, is warbled regret.
Again, Chicago’s perfect silhouette
reshapes the room, pretties up to entice
the migrants, who sing city alphabet
like balladeers. That patchwork paradise
has vowed to save them—a jumble of vice
and lies, northward promise, remembered sweat
and sometimes dead mice might have to suffice
before the revelation of sunset.
This is heartbeat now.