I am poor at numbers,
at the game of tit for tat,
adding affronts and kindnesses on my cosmic abacus,
keeping love and life in neat little columns
all ready to for a final accounting
at the appropriate time,
or as some do, at the most hurtful.
Math it seems, is my worst subject,
even in the times when it would serve me well,
to collect on debts and blood debts
with gleeful passion
as I count my righteous riches like piles of coins.
I tend to skip steps, lose count,
all too often,
it is not worth the effort to measure
each detail, for fear
that the accounting may not turn in my favor
and I would be perpetually in debt, or worse
when I am content to enjoy the meal before me
without measuring the cost,
trusting to God and manna to balance the scales
and leaving the vengeful accounting to others.
About this poem.
Actually, I am pretty good at math. I just don’t like to do it.
I’m the same way with anger.