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Drive out to the woods
park the car
in the dirt lot
and skip paying the $2
in the old yellow metal box
with unnumbered slots. No one
checks, and you won't get caught. Get
the baggie from the front seat, and
hold it upright
its just a twist tie
and it will leak. Carry it past the lone oak in the field
don't stop there. It seems perfect, symbolic,
but it isn't. It isn't the thing at all. Go to the
scrubby edge of the woods
where the chipmunk holes are
and the poison ivy
and the brown oak leaves
and the leggy ferns. A skinny maple
will be the thing. Take it out from the baggie
and try not to let it drip
up your sleeves
as you unwind the baker's string
and saw at it
like an idiot
with your keys. Finally
a few pieces
long enough: step up
on the highest root
and reach as high
as you can. Its not that high. Tie it
to the tree
straining your neck
arms getting tired
making undignified
strangled grunts. Its sloppy
and your hands are a mess
and you did drip up your sleeves
but its done. Take a look. It looks
OK there. Interesting, if nothing else. Now
go home. Then, come back
from time to time
and watch what happens
over time. It dries out
the strings loosen
and sag
and brown
and one comes completely off. Things
peck and nibble at it. You can see that
when you look close up. It becomes
more organic looking
more a part of the scene. Then one day
in a hurry
you stop by
and its gone. Just the strings. You're
surprised
a little sad maybe
you came to like these visits. But its
also OK. Your job here
now done. You say goodbye
one long look
at the woods
to remember. And then
off you go
to something else.

There goes your heart. At least
it was on
your own terms.