After a tortuous hour of
math (algebra to be exact)
I start dinner; Middle Eastern stew:
Cardamom, Coriander, and turmeric.
Cooking is a little like math, but
much more like art. My mind begins
to ease as Bach pumps out
one of his symphonies from
the CD player. The stew boils, and
I want to go outside and play,
chase windmills. Where's Sancho?
Dulcinea's here, frustrated by my inept
ability in the equation game.
I fucking despise algebra.
Where's the Bluebird, the Sunflower,
Bukowski or Eugene O'Neil?
I want to smell a six-week-old puppy,
taste Van Gogh yellow, fuck until
I can't walk, and ease my
way into old age.
Vivaldi plays his victorious song.
And I know I'll conquer the
numbers game, but probably not
before it drives me crazy;
actually, it's a short putt.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 22nd, 2024 19:43
- Comment from author about the poem: Check out my you tube channel where I read from my recent book, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems, available on Amazon.com
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
Offline)
Comments4
I hated trigonometry more haha 😂 love the last 4 lines!
Thank you.
Love the feel and the imagery of this poem, Thomas.
Thanks, Tom
Yes, what is the point of algebra?! lol.
exactly. Ty
Who is Algebra - eh?! lol. Mr Al Gebra.
This aint half bad at all, in fact, it's effin brilliant sir and its a long drive to the fairway .. T .. N
Thanks, my friend.
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