Poetry and poësie

Photographic by De Waal Venter

It figures, 15 February 2013

I like the bony feel
of one;
it has a faint
vinegary smell.
A favourite pastime of mine
is to hold eight in my hand
and fondle its two globules,
warm and softly firm
under my fingers.

Seven makes me feel competent
as I hold it
in front of me
and use its angles
to measure the emotions
of taxi drivers and lady poets.

Three is great fun.
I tickle its inner curves
and it giggles
like a goon
in an old radio show.

I’m not sure
about zero.
Sometimes I enjoy
bouncing it off the wall,
but at other times it scares me
when I look through its middle
to watch two galaxies
floating slowly, or very fast, together.
Isn’t there going to be one hell
of a smash?

When you put them together,
it’s less fun and more of a chore.
Seventeen is damn difficult
to evaluate:
is it prime of life
or callow youth?

And switch it around,
you really have a puzzle:
I can’t make out anything here,
it’s fuzzy and smokey
and it tastes like tobacco, sometimes.
At other times
like a very ripe apricot.
It is my next birthday.