of calculus the man had no good sense
which was plain in the poor syllable count he did
on figuring his abilities dense
an accounting firm wouldn't pay him a quid
yet he professed to being very sum smart
though of genius none could be reckoned
the error in the abacuses bead part
correct numbers of him so beckoned
eleven were employed on each line
over the roof by a digit he went
instead of using the standard ten mine
his sonnet seemed so ungainly of bent
the final total wasn't quite up to scratch
hence his poem not put in the flawless batch

cut quick—! quick!
unshackle, ship off, shuffle—
and if the Cuss crack some ten becrossed
what heaven have you?
cut—! amen, wha'cutting counts
the abacuses
of a

quake and halo'd curt
accountant named
in kneeling cerulean crib—
The Caucasus, the
Caliphate, the Croesus—

(you quack!—cut!—)

—ah, Christ.

Oh, how I wish I had a reliable Internal Guidance System.
You know, like a GPS, but one that never loses service during cloudy weather or runs out of battery power?

Instead, my on-board navigation system frequently leaves me hanging.
Where am I? What am I doing? … What am I supposed to be doing?

It’s like my guidance computer got knocked out, kind of like the one on the ill-fated Apollo 13 spacecraft.

Which brings up another thing. …

Just like in “Apollo 13,” the movie, I wish I had this team of really smart guys, all wearing white shirts, black ties and 1970s horn-rimmed glasses, feverishly sliding beads on their abacuses*, checking my calculations for me, letting me know if the answer I’m considering is sound. “Looks good, Flight!” Thumbs up!

Instead, it’s like I’m endlessly pulling the handle on a Vegas slot machine, watching for a solution to line up.
Directions. The Right Decisions.

It’s not that I don’t have any ideas. Gosh knows, I’m always looking for clues and signs.
Astrology. Organized religion. The Wall Street Journal. Oprah Magazine.
I’ve sought counsel from them all. And found some temporal landing lights.

Sometimes I’m moved to act boldly. Make a change! Write that letter! Start something new.

But inevitably the runway gets mighty foggy all over again.
I waiver. I waffle. And I wonder … what now?

Come on, GPS! I need you to kick in here.
I’m tired of trying to read the tea leaves.

Could you just lock and load my coordinates and let me settle into some journey that makes sense and feels right … that takes me where I’m meant to be?

Oh, wait a second. Is that you, GPS? What’s that you said?
Oh, “Recalculating.” Right. Got it. I’ve heard that before.
Come to think of it, it’s the answer I was expecting.

And I know it’s going to come up many more times as I navigate my life.
I wait. I hear. I listen. I learn. I hope. I live.