Bad at Math

The sound of a cat purring on your lap.
Pecan Pie.
The smell of lilacs wafting in from the back yard.
B. B. King on the stereo.
Crisp clean sheets on the bed.
Your favorite painting on the wall
Scars, each a reminder of your survival.
Your lover’s voice on the phone.
A small glass of bourbon over ice.
The late day sun, warm on your face.
Laughter with your child.
The sound of singing in a church on a Sunday morning.
Her perfume, lingering in the air.
Muscles, tired from a good day’s work,
The smell of fresh cut grass.
The rare blue sky of a perfect Spring day.
Thunderstorms seen from the front porch.
Coffee. Ah…. coffee.
Newborn Robins in the eves.
The peace of an early morning prayer.
Skin. Hand in hand.
Sunlight through the windows as the dust dances.
An intimate conversation, huddled in the diner’s booth.

No matter the hell,
these things exist.
I will leave it to you
to count the numbers.
I was never good at math anyway.
I count
other things.

About this poem.

It’s not that I am bad at math. I can be rather good at it actually. I just hate it.

Tom