how can it be,
the mathematicians,
the statisticians,
can so well predict

the curvature of my day;
is my life so impoverished,
so undifferentiated, my course;
the climb, the leveling, the
ultimatum gliding, a summary
path to an unremarkable landing

probable outcomes of my
statistical profile so calculable;
my dreams, their peculiarities,
essences, massaged into conformity

hatch plot, deceive, it’s cool,
write a poem, unpredictable,
who could foretell, this scheme,
let’s keep a secret, tween us only,
cover the keyhole, so their eye
cannot peak inside the you and I,
two twice ten thousand indecipherable,
writer and reader, we one, inseparable

only we can decode the true meaning