He ripped the jack from his iPod

as if cancelling his subscription to God.

It was her song, the one with her face

 

on its flag, the flag she speared

into the permafrost of his heart

claiming him forever.

 

She was a surgeon

who makes beautiful incisions

but forgets to close the hole.

 

The evening was soft,

moisture trickling

down the faces of the leaves.

 

He could leave the park

and return to the uncertain

weather of his apartment.

 

Or he could stand there beside

the path, cord dangling

like a patient in ICU who

 

cuts his own life support.