Artificial Hearts

Clusters of chagrin push the hours in another direction. The world comes into view in the mechanical chokes of a sputtering garage door. Every morning she watches. As the vehicle backs away. Every evening she wonders at its return. The fresh soil in its treads smelling of clowns caught without their faces.

Just numbers she warned. Her face contorted by the finality of the prospect. Hours peddling their petty cancers. To damsels in distress. Small portals in the skin. Scalping tickets to this dread concert. Of desperation and sugar.

The sweet intrusion of logic a faint and weakening force. As she brandishes her future like a sword.

The future patient in lazy snowflakes and melting icicles. An empty rocking chair the only evidence of her failing resolve. Counting down to zero in obvious increments.