Batter my heart, three-personed God— wrote Donne: did he
mean slip it when least expected into tempura batter
alongside slices of carrot and battered-looking
zucchini; for battered is pretty much what it feels,
fried in oil as if high heat could recharge batteries
that have run low from feeling battered in the daily
onslaught? Aren't there times you wish you could barter
your lot for something better, be more like the batter
who can hit a ball on first try; or like a battering
ram that busts through heavy doors keeping you from
coming in from the rain? A battery of surgeons tries
to revive the patient, but high voltage battery shocks
don't always work; instead of beating up the beleaguered,
perhaps a massage helps coax the heart back better.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.