Feeling like
a calculator
with a decimal
key
that sticks.
Always incorrect,
missing
the point,
a fraction
of the
actual,
misplacing the
factual.
The letter-opener
laughs
at me.
Sees
my inaccuracy,
my inadequacy.
The thumbtacks
gather,
whispering into
the corkboard,
memos written,
regarding my
misaligned
mathematics.
The desktop
dings
the arrival
of an
email.
The office-supply
order
has arrived.
The scissors,
held
in an X,
slice through
packing tape.
Right there,
on top
of the steno-pads,
rests
my replacement,
new,
plastic bubble
intact,
decimal key
moves free,
better than
me,
no need
to see
to believe,
calculations conceived,
bourn correct.
The decimals
rounded to
the nearest
hundredth,
I’ll find
rest,
my long division
meeting measure
of
its remainder
at the bottom
of an
office
wastebasket.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 11:50 AM UTC
Feeling like
a calculator
with a decimal
key
that sticks.
Always incorrect,
missing
the point,
a fraction
of the
actual,
misplacing the
factual.
The letter-opener
laughs
at me.
Sees
my inaccuracy,
my inadequacy.
The thumbtacks
gather,
whispering into
the corkboard,
memos written,
regarding my
misaligned
mathematics.
The desktop
dings
the arrival
of an
email.
The office-supply
order
has arrived.
The scissors,
held
in an X,
slice through
packing tape.
Right there,
on top
of the steno-pads,
rests
my replacement,
new,
plastic bubble
intact,
decimal key
moves free,
better than
me,
no need
to see
to believe,
calculations conceived,
bourn correct.
The decimals
rounded to
the nearest
hundredth,
I’ll find
rest,
my long division
meeting measure
of
its remainder
at the bottom
of an
office
wastebasket.
***
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2018
