Wholly Halfhearted

A half of a whole is a half, and a whole of a half is a half. Painting is art, and music is art, and blood is the art of the heart. (The blood in the heart goes “De-dump, de-dump,” and the blood in the veins goes “De-dump, de-dump,” and the blood in the head goes “De-dump, de-dump” when reading of days long gone by, and a timpani head goes “De-dump, de-dump” as the drummer beats Beethoven 5.) If a half of a whole is a half, and blood is the art of the heart, Then why does most art get a really great start if it cries o’er a half of a heart? (At a symphony concert the ushers stand guard so that no patron enters too early and mars the crowd’s satisfaction of art in its whole which the artists are playing, relentlessly playing, constantly playing, except when they rest and are graying.) If in marriage the two become one, then why do we find so much fun in reading of pain and emotional stain when one’s half of a heart’s left alone? (How many tales do you know which show a heartbroken lover who finds to their sadness that the one they’ve pined for a week or a decade is hopelessly in love with another? Who hasn’t been in the same situation and felt the great pains that come with this illness? Why would we want to see more?) Have we not a world where one can find Plenty Jo’s whose halves aren’t entwined? Those who aren’t take part Of the bittersweet art Of setting their half-heart apart.