On such a day,
how can I do math?
Numbers scurry, then
disappear, apologizing.
What foolishness to wonder
who I am.
My desires: you can have them.
As for me, I will hold on to
This.
Channelling my inner Rumi. I make no claims for the quality of the poem, but it is what I felt. If I have any readers, I would encourage you to write bad poetry from time to time as well. Many of the best poets were insincere, but–as Oscar Wilde reminds us–you and I mean it. That makes all the difference.