poem by Fred Leeds
I have a special drawer where I keep my arithmetic mistakes.
Pennies and division signs crouch there
in the dark,
their terrible irritability silenced.
In another drawer poetry waits to leap out,
ready to shock bookkeepers
with its goofy smile and baggy pants.
Store clerks crouch behind loaded bows and ribbons,
ready to strike when they see me approach.
It is always too late.
It is not that I dislike having things in order,
I just hate to see life’s wonder broken down
into fractions and decimals.
My imagination and I are plotting a revolution
against the whole rotten system,
if we can ever get organized
or learn to wait in line.
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