Tongs

There isn’t any problem with my heart,
Although my blood has run a little thicker
In the last few weeks. I heard you snicker
When my tongs grasped the last blueberry tart,
Thinking you might be just a bit too smart,
Too slick for me. No one I know is slicker,
But you announced, “I’m sure that it’s your ticker.”
It’s not my stinking ticker. It’s my art.

Don’t think I couldn’t sing this song. I could,
It’s easy. I know all the same damn songs
That everybody else knows, all the wrongs
You think I could be righting, if I would.
But songs don’t do that. You’d have understood
If you had tools for it. Here, take my tongs.