Poem: Pacemaker

This is a retitled, edited version of the poem, "Standoff," which appeared not too long ago in Boyslut. 



Owl

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Pacemaker

he lived in a niche of
dusty books next to a vein
of stress-herded cars.

the quiet of his garret
throbbed from the arrhythmia
of stoplight and jump.

for all intents
his studious grind
was an inglorious itch,

a tip of pencil lead
broken off from previous times,
faint in the body

of the Pace.

doves mulled to coo in
the chimney, lullabied
the hearth.

the desk kept stacks
of outdated words
no one had time to believe.

he would die--someday--
of a heart attack in the same
way that the Pace--someday--

would fail to go on.
side by side, neither
could ever admit

the other mattered.




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