ping piNG PING

My heart
on the floor
like a soup can,
collecting
another lousy forecast.
Overflowing by 7 AM
with dirty suspicions
that leak in
through a roof
that was never fixed—
and even if it was fixed,
there is a hole there now;
Big enough for all the squirrels;
All the rodents that inhabit this town
to scamper their way inside,
along with all the drips,
to get a drink
of red rusty rain water—
and maybe piss in it while they’re at it;
Marking ME as their territory—
for which no other rat
may trespass or piss.
My heart
on the floor,
glowing orange—
like a sun that might never rise again.
This is the way it is,
almost every day,
waiting for a brighter weather report—
while last night turns over in bed,
settling in
for what certainly will be
another long mourning.