By Mike Stutzman
Yes, yes, yes—
the sandbags I have stacked,
and the sheets of plywood
nailed overlapping my storefront heart.
I have made ready
for your grey eyes to turn me
away once more. The cheerful experts
track your cruel silence.
I press to my ear a radio
jammed to the station
devoted to the crisis you bring:
the ways you will ruin me
if you shift even a few degrees.
Yes, I tune my guitar
to the chimes they play on the hour.
How I have rehearsed the way
I will take the dark O
of your no and drift its innertube
to the house of your family,
allow the swollen flood of circumstance
to lift me to your window.
