Self-Examination

He pinches the plump bulb
Between ring and fore and thumb
And rolls the globe
Like a gobstopper on his tongue.

He fingers the contoured wattle precisely
The way a cashier might trace a banknote
Seam, testing for flaws; just how a gambler
Might rub the same, for luck.

He clenches his molars and a sticky
Delta irrigates the nape of his neck, though
The skin across his back feels
Like a cape he ought to slough off.

He hears everything; his ears
Could clock a pocketwatch
Ticking in a bulldog's belly.
He holds his breath. Crickets.

The pad of his thumb comes to rest
On a lump. There's a pulse
In the thumb -
Do not trust it
When checking for life.
The tiny hump is like a baby,
Growing. He massages
The bump with his thumb
And thinks
He feels a heart thumping.