This morning I am hopelessly optimistic
that I can fix everything I have ever written,
including this. By noon, you’ll find me
weeping inconsolably, up to my elbows
in wires and blood, desperate for a set of
schematics that might help me reconnect
this failing organ to the core of the sun.
With any luck, I’ll have it beating again
by evening. And if the weather is right, I’ll
throw open the windows and play a few bars
for the folks out on the street, its voice clear
and strong as a funeral made out of glass.