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Charles Noreaster
He saw himself in numbers,
statistics, facts, logic.
He saw himself in numbers
that toyed with his mind.
The IQ emblazoned
across his forehead
didn’t tell of the eloquent
nature of his thoughts.
The vocabulary count
written on his lips
didn’t mention the convivial
nature of his lay.
The measures of his shoulders,
muscles, waist circumfrence,
were ignorant of his frame’s
skinny beauty.
Life begins to count,
One, Two, Three,
Time begins to accelerate,
Four, Five, Six.
Thoughts in your head mount,
Seven, Eight, Nine,
A single phrase,
Ten, Eleven, Twelve.
Something inside snaps,
I lost count.
Small, weak breaths escape,
One, Four, Seven.
My words stop rhyming,
Two, Five, Eight,
Counting starts loosing shape,
Three, Six, Nine.
It’s the only number
I’ve befriended. Others see
it as sailboat or
tree. I see it
as a sentinel in
the snow, a draftee
more lost than zero,
more alone than one.
Circular and disorderly, I
love nonetheless angles, geometry.
I spent summers truing
four corners of foundations
with my founding father.
Four’s the only number
that romanced me; it’s
the beat, the measure,
When I can count the numbers far,
And know all the figures that there are,
Then I'll know everything, and I
Can know about the ground and sky,
And all the little bugs I see,
And I'll count the leaves on the silver-leaf tree,
And all the days that ever can be.
I'll know all the cows and sheep that pass,
And I'll know all the grass,
And all the places far away,
And I'll know everything some day.