Heart. By. Off.

It was something Derrida said,
but he's dead
so forget it.

I was curled up asleep
on the finish line. I robbed banks
with a replica, split
atoms with my thumb-nail.

Now, professors in convertibles
tear past me, tossing ashtrays full of lit
half-smoked cigerettes
into the road,
making tarmac briefly special.

I put down the replica,
lope to the lectern
and make effacing notes:
'If the moon can't get it right
what hope
do I have?'

The professors rev
their engines to mishear
what the thunder says.
For once, I will use the word heart.
I will love the pot holes,
scour my body and
make truthful noises.