When my heart beats too fast
      it sets off an alarm. My watch keeps count

to the tick, tick, talk of my grandmother clock.
      Imagine a woodpecker beating a ratta-tat-tat

into the bark of a tree to harvest a grub.
      Maybe this is too graphic—let me say—it’s as if

I’m up to the yin-yang in sugar-laced marzipan.
     When I write, each tick of my pen

records a tock of the clock—a tick, tick, tock
      ahead of a knock. My fist-sized heart’s

a contortionist filled with switchbacks
      and knuckle cracks—a flutter of moth wings.

I’ll say Goodbye Achy-Breaky-Tickity-Tock—
      before the pain of a fatal shock.