I love that my grandson’s pockets are always full
of stones, mulch, a feather, wilted dandelions
just like the reclaimed treasures inside my own.  
Much to his parent’s chagrin
each item makes its way to prominence on a windowsill.
I can only grin. 
                        

Now it’s all about the extreme edges. 
Little is taught about varying points.
We work with incomplete sets. 
Right corners increase division, subtract the truth. 
The sum of offenses are greater than ever.
There is no middle in this math. 
Twenty is greater than a majority of more. 
The outcome of obstruction is the function of a few outliers. 
Corrections are left undone. 
Complicity multiplies the weight of the problem. 

I’ve never been good at math. I’m still learning,
but the old way seemed straightforward.
Everyone counted. 
                        

Trapped inside my house of envy 
I remember to step outside, deviate 
from the path trodden
and with a child-like sense of wonder
I re-imagine, sense the impossible 
dripping in the ordinary. 
Like a sacrament I swallow
every drop of sweet milk
offered from a purple cow.