Today's poem is by Bob Hicok
Some Math, Some Words
A man was measured by how well he whistled
while measuring other men for suits
when I was young, or chopping woodor executing convicts if that was his job,
men still tend to ask right away
what you do, and if you answer, erode or shiveror collect evidence of euphoria, they don't
as a rule ask you over to watch the big game,
without a job, it's harder to steal toilet paperor airplanes from work, people cross the street
in case your three days of beard
is contagious, I can count on one handto five and five on the other, that's symmetry
and the number of people I know
who've been out of work for three years, threetimes ten is thirty years of unemployment
collectively, twelve times six is seventy-two
in case this is a test, I don't want to tell themthey're expendable, so I didn't just type that,
that one person's about as important
as a falling leaf in Milwaukee isto the trees of Rue Extrordinaire in Paris,
I just come around and sit among
their broken coffee makers and children,their no-name cancers and beer, we play cards,
we throw stones at the sky and miss, I go home
and make love with my pay stubsand kiss my mortgage good-night, there
but for the god of grace, bless your countings,
knock on wood, why wood?
Tweet
Copyright © 2014 Bob Hicok All rights reserved
from the Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
Home Web Weekly Features Archives About Verse Daily FAQs Submit to Verse Daily
Copyright © 2002-2014 Verse Daily All Rights Reserved