Two poems by Mick Theebs

It is an incontrovertible fact of science

It is an incontrovertible fact of science
that people are born with
holes in their hearts and
that over time these holes
seal themselves up.
However,
there is a substantial segment
of the general population
whose hearts do not mend.
These poor souls wander the earth
with chest pains and indigestion
in search of a miracle cure
to seal up that gap inside them.
They go from doctor to doctor
rattling tin cups
searching for something
to plug their hole.
Passersby will drop whatever they see fit
into dust-caked cups─
mostly rosary beads and religious tokens
but among the sacred baubles
some of these wanderers are fortunate enough
to get something else.
Maybe a couple of dollars or
a tube of lipstick or
even some PYT’s phone number.
If they can’t count on someone else
to fill these holes
they’ll use bits of chewing gum
or chunks of steak (medium rare)
or if they’re really in trouble
a cigarette butt and
a few drops of vodka
will be just fine until
they find something more permanent.
Sometimes these travelers succumb
to the emptiness inside them
but those are rare instances and
more often than not
they fall to whatever
patch they have jerry-rigged,
whether its bacon grease,
high quality personal lubricant,
or good old fashioned
Mexican black tar heroin.
A heart can’t beat properly
when it’s clogged with all that refuse.
It might get along in the short time,
but that’s no way to play the long game.
The rub isn’t that these holes can’t be filled,
but that there is no single cure.
We have not found
a master key for these many locks.
Rather,
a key must be handcrafted
with tender touch
and caring caress
for each individual hole.
There is no easy way out.
Denying the very existence of these holes
will not put blood in your veins
or oxygen in your lungs.
There is only one way
to fill that hole in your heart
and you probably
saw this coming
but it’s

 

 
How it feels to lose your hair

It’s a lot like falling out of love.
It doesn’t happen all at once.
It’s an insidious
gradual thing
You pretend it’s not happening
but it’s as slow and inevitable as a glacier.
Each day you lose
Just a small piece
A little here
A little there
Leaving a trail of it
Wherever you go.
Sometimes it will make you
Curse the world
And wish for it to burn.
Other times it will be
a benchmark of the past
that will make your heart twinge.
In the end,
It’s best to just
cut it off
entirely.

 

Mick Theebs is serving as the Poet Laureate of Milford, CT until 2020. In addition to poetry, Mick also writes prose, satire, and scholarly articles. His work has been featured in a wide swath of books and publications, including Massachusetts’s Best Emerging Poets, Tiny Flames Press, and P.S. I Love You. More of his poetry can be found in his book Somnambulist. For spicy takes and dumb jokes, follow him on Twitter @MickTheebs.

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