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After a tortuous hour of
math (algebra to be exact)
I start dinner, middle Eastern stew:
Cardamom, Coriander, and turmeric.
Cooking is a little like math, but
much more like art.My mind begins
to ease as Bach pumps out
one of his symphonies from
the CD player.The stew boils, and
I want to go outside and play,
chase windmills.Where's Sancho?
Dulcinea's here, frustrated by my inept
ability in the equation game.
I ******* despise algebra.
Where's the Bluebird, the Sunflower,
Bukowski or Eugene O'Neil?
I want to smell a six week old puppy,
taste Van Gogh yellow, **** until
I can't walk, and ease my
way into old age.
Vivaldi plays his victorious song.
And I know I'll conquer the
numbers game, but probably not
before it drives me crazy;
actually, it's a short putt.

— The End —