Muscle, A Poem.

Fist sized little bundle...

of muscle, valves.

Always busy,

not for show, though.

Resting between beats

but laying it down.

Like the sledgehammer

of a great big man

driving the spike 

into the wooden sleeper. 

Boom…boom.

Boom...boom. 

Call & Response. 

How is it 

that this tiny bundle 

of muscle, 

not actually pretty,

wouldn’t stand 

in front of a mirror

reapplying its lipstick, 

(knowing it’s worth 

is beyond the visual.

Visual pretty only touching 

the hem of bliss,

pointing at it…

but not…even…close).

How is it that this

is the center of our feeling?

Of our desires?

Of our…

Love.

Rumi said lovers 

are like two lamps.

Their light blending 

into each other, 

never separate…

never truly one.

This is as it should be. 

How can it pump

blood 60,000 miles, 

beat without a brain,

without a body 

and still manage to 

give everything in this

little world meaning.