an older poem that did not make it into "one match left," but will appear in "Matzo Ball Soup."
brick wall
Walking up the driveway the boy felt his innards bubble. His eyelids twitched with anxious bolts of spontaneity. He saw wrinkles appear where they should not. A river of sweat poured from his palms; they glistened in the moonlight. He cursed the cramp wreaking havoc in the belly of his kneecap. The space between his toes filled with a green and yellow puss: the blood of a worried mind. The quick under his fingernails beat to the rhythm of his heart. Buddump... buddump... buddump....
He approached her door and knocked with a trembling fist.
Walking up the driveway the boy felt his innards bubble. His eyelids twitched with anxious bolts of spontaneity. He saw wrinkles appear where they should not. A river of sweat poured from his palms; they glistened in the moonlight. He cursed the cramp wreaking havoc in the belly of his kneecap. The space between his toes filled with a green and yellow puss: the blood of a worried mind. The quick under his fingernails beat to the rhythm of his heart. Buddump... buddump... buddump....
He approached her door and knocked with a trembling fist.
"brick wall" looks nice..and that's the kind of "rhythm" that would keep one alive..
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