Our maths teacher wasn’t amused.

He solved hard problems for us
taught sincerely in the class
but the moment he held the pen
sweats would flood his palm
like a nagging rain
that his army of handkerchief
couldn’t bring any relief
with the dripping moisture
like a school of sharks
devoured our paper’s ink marks
and from the workouts already done
steps were wiped out one by one.

At those times he wouldn’t speak
only looked at us apologetic
burdened as if with guilt’s weight
for the treachery of his ceaseless sweat
that forced him to desist from anymore writing
close his pen and start dictating.

Then one day we saw him bring out a cream
his agony had reached such an extreme
with that he rubbed his palms with glee
looked he had solved a great mystery
said now this would lock all the doors
stop sweat’s pour through skin’s pores.

You can scoop galaxies onto a teaspoon,
fill your eye with an expanding universe
have an insight that knows no boundary
the eternal within the mortal
stirring your morning tea with a spoonful of stars.

i'd write you a thousand words
a hundred times a day
but i don't know how
and
i don't know what to say

everybody needs a piece of you
wherever you roam;
that piece is truth
an honest smile
a genuine greet.