VARIATIONS ON AN ENIGMA
Great mathematicians peering down
from the roof might be able
to compute in their heads
how many steps it’d take me
to cross the street while bleeding,
and if they cared and weren’t
constantly being accosted
by counterfeit pleas from near hysterics,
they’d be as surprised as I am
that my beard is coming in gray
and add a few more zeroes,
for I was told – no, assured –
the sutures would dissolve,
the eye eventually grow back,
only to arrive early this morning
to an unwashed chalkboard,
empty desks,
a note blown on the floor,
the ink still damp.