When I saw it first that thing,
Was covered in argentic bling,
Lucent display shy and bold.
A bit of light, a ray, a shine,
Plus another bug on line,
Verily the nerves behold.
I wore it on my hip to wait
For it to tell me I was late,
If I'd missed another beat.
If my heart had clicked too wide,
Thirty inches in my stride
Or just awkward two left feet.
Calibrated, set the gage,
Punched a number for my age,
Got the answer wrong by ten.
Made the other cuts perhaps,
Scored few wins and had a lapse,
Answered who, where, what and when.
The sensor sent an evening song,
Then it sent all signals wrong,
But inspired different rhymes.
Kept me from a slumber deep,
Kept me till I fell asleep,
So I sync with it my times.
It spends nights deciphering runes
Measuring meter beat and tunes,
Squaring roots and raising power.
Storing dots and analyzing,
Pictures of my every hour.
Score and only hours four
aren't enough so it wants more,
Weeks of seven make it fraught.
Normal months not long enough
To smooth the lines of every trough,
Years too short for life's work wrought.
The sensor is my lover hence,
It senses what it has to sense,
But does it sense what ails askance?
It measures right but can it tell
My aching heart is not unwell,
It's aching for my lover's glance?
My notion always has been I
Can either feel it or get why,
The two don't come together.
Sometimes one the other not,
Just a feeling not what's what,
Gentle calm or stormy weather.
It can't be measured, val-ed or weighted,
listed, grokked, or ever graded
Started, ended, even middled.
Judged, appraised, ranked, imputed,
leveled, amplified or muted,
sorted, guided, or unriddled.
The daily changes come and go,
Swelling with each ebb and flow,
Change is constant, constant led.
The irony is layered with mirth,
Our heartbeats started at our birth
and won't stop until we are dead.
Seven-eight may guide this rhyme,
With the affordance of time,
Shadows cool as evening falls.
Feel the courage, feel the warmth,
Safe and shelter from the storm,
Take my sweater and my shawls.
Thirty years of thirty days
Walks and dances, falls and graze.
Can the sensor sense within?
For all the poems I might dare,
Here is my song of despair,
All I want is love sin fin.