I like to think that I live in a bubble
The set of all those disinterested
With convivial sadness
And rhyming strife
Still, I hear the peals of nervous laughter
In the cleat-slough on the linoleum
Broken twigs underfoot
Window shades for the sun
And the insect whine of the TV
Crying in a bubble is inadvisable.
But irritation is unavoidable
and a suspension
of discussion
of depression
is admirable
For mankind is grown from the garden of chances,
Every exponential zero a miracle
To be counted and kissed
With fragile tears of fecund joy
Those who find significance in numbers
are cold mathematicians
But I am a poet
And with sadness and time insignificant
I can find time to count the zeroes.
(Edited for flow)
