My heart was a revolving door

Not for people

. . . (not only for people) . . .

For all things:

A snatch of song; the night sky in autumn; a kitten playing.

All things would march inside

They would fill me up, and I would spit out love.

It came pouring from the doors, the windows,

Out the chimney and seeping through every crack.

Some would come with disregard

Write on walls, start little fires,

Tramp away without shame.

I posted signs but still they came.

The structural damage mounted

Faster than it could be repaired.

(Pipes leaking, burst, power out)

Ceilings caving in. Doors broken.

I chased off the hoodlums

And learned to protect this crumbling building

Wielding my heart, a great revolver.

Threatening to fire at any who ranged too near.

Those who made themselves vulnerable.

It was self-defense I claimed.

I would launch volleys of love,

(of fear, of anger, self-loathing, shame)

At the whites of any eye.

I ducked and dived as bullets whizzed past my ear

And I would not stop to determine

Whether it was friendly fire. The sound

Of shooting was all around, in the distance.

I hear bombs popping and the drone

Of surveilling aircraft. The sun never rises.

Now we all hunker in our ruined buildings,

No light to guide us, walls stripped and pockmarked,

No running water, no trust, no communication,

Eating beans from a tin

And waiting for

(my heart)

the revolution.