Short Putt

After a torturous 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'Neill?
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.