And Here I Thought I Was Being Congenial

I was once born with a hole in my heart,
(Actually my atrial septum)
but no matter how I tried I could not
fill the hole with material things like

an umbrella or surgical stitching.
I was slumped at a bar when I saw her
scouring an old medical journal
featuring my congenital defect.

She smelled of neutral hues, sterile hallways;
of dinner by candle-light and fucking.
Her pager started to buzz, so I stood;
when I approached my feet were arrhythmic

and I murmured my symptoms like a poem.
She told me it only made my heart grow.