On Allen St.

I’m hanging by a feather,
     but I feel strong.
All’s I need
     is some cushions beneath me,
     some fresh produce,
     the gas man to arrive,
     and a fluffy new dog.

And my rhythm.
Have you seen my rhythm, Patience?
It broke its leash;
     it’s out painting the highways red,
     ignoring doors,
     playing its own CDs.

Magnets might help—
     it’s allergic to magnets
     (magnetism the reverse of drumbeats).
     Get close enough and the poles reverse:
     Coriolis swirls the wrong way: proof
     that nothing is important
     without also being mystical.
     Filings that ought to’ve scattered
     instead lock metallic arms and
     call the dog back in
     with a high-pitched whistle
     that brings us all to our knees.