The Clouds Are Up to My Neck

I didn’t do anything wrong.

I try not to. The water doesn’t

fill the man-made lake, but seeps

into the ground beneath

in danger when they don’t have to,

then what do I do? I’m not righteous.

I should fortify my home and body

now. The iced heart circulates

in the operating room. We circulate

at the benefit in the bar.

Tonight even the designated drivers

are drinking—every drink

goes towards the heart transplant—

and even though I don’t know

if I should have another, I feel good

about my single whiskey sour

so newly and briefly invested

with meaning; when the rainwater

exhausts itself, the sky looks good

as new, but it is not. God, don’t

You commit the sin of happiness?

The forecast for tonight

was a deep rain. In our city prone

to flash floods, no one blames

the people staying home.

The doctor is always required to try

to save the dying man, even if the cure

might be fatal. We should pray,

and the doctor should, too. Once

I saw an empty car floating

in a flash flood I was driving

through. The water a negative

of the night sky. No lightning.

Now the clouds are up to my neck.

Before the operation, the dying man

was not allowed to leave his city limits—

electric external heart pumping

only so far. If he had driven

until the current held no power

over him . . . if it had diminished

into his body like rain falling on a field,

no one would blame him. So who cares

about your crisis of purpose,

asks God, but I don’t hear.