Runaway Heart

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The surgeon hoisted Heart
from the dead donor’s chest;
Heart thought it was being born,
fresh from a C-section.
Still warm and slick with blood,
it flexed its firm ventricles
with a vigorous pump, slipped
from the surgeon’s grip, plopped
on the floor, and skidded
past the rubber-gloved grab
of the surgeon’s assistant.
It thumped open the door and beat
a little two-step down the hall:
da-dum, da-dum, da-dum.
It was a strong little booger,
had been working out for years.
A nurse called out, “Get back here,
we’re not done with you yet.”
The clerk at the front desk yelled,
“What’s your name? Where
should I send the bill?” Heart
ignored them, raced for the wide,
sliding glass doors, for the other side:
the outside where the sun was
shining, people were hurrying,
cars were whizzing by, and dogs
were sniffing around for something
to chase, something bloody good to eat.

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