I asked my mathematician friend
if mathematics is an invention
or a discovery, for I had been
wondering about it a long time.
It’s both, he said. First it was a 
discovery and then it was an 
invention. I thought so, I said. 
It’s just like poetry, which first 
was a discovery and then was
an invention, except that poetry
keeps reinventing itself while
mathematics doesn’t. It’s done.
That’s because mathematics has
already discovered the truth, so it 
doesn’t need to keep reinventing 
itself as poetry does, he said.
The trouble is that you poets keep
looking for the truth in the wrong
places. Oh, where’s that? I said.
In your hearts, he said. You’ll
never find the truth there. You’ll
only keep finding the same old lies.
Maybe so, I said. But you have to
admit that you guys need us. For 
what? We already have our one
beautiful truth,  he said. Yes, I said. 
But you need us and our thousands
of  beautiful lies to let you bear your
one and only beautiful truth.
                        

 “How are you?” I ask a neighbor.
“Oh, I can’t complain,” he says.
I hate when he says that.
It’s not true.
I’ve heard him complain to Pete the postmaster in the post office.
“How are you?”  I ask another neighbor.
“Oh, I can’t complain,” she says.
I hate when she says that.
It’s not true.
I’ve heard her complain to the librarian in the library.
I know it’s simply a greeting.
I know we are not supposed to take it seriously.
I know we’re supposed to smile and go on our way.
But sometimes I wish they would complain.
I’m a good listener.
I’ll listen to their marriage woes.
I’ll listen to their health problems.
I’ll listen to them carry on about their grown children.
I’ll listen to them gripe about taxes.
I was a psychology major before I switched to English.
Besides it will give me an excuse to complain to them.
I’m tired of listening to me complain to no one but myself .
                        

Frank came to clean the place,
pick up branches, blow leaves.
My mother died last week, he said.
Oh, I’m sorry, Frank, I said.
She died in her sleep. She was 89,
he said. She lived a full life, I said.
It was peaceful in her sleep, he said.
That’s the best way. In your sleep,
I said. She lived a full life, he said.
I saw her more in the nursing home
than I saw her for thirty years,
he said. I understand. The yard
looks good, I said. But you have
to so something about this, he said,
pointing to the bare ground in front.
The rain coming down the back
is washing away the soil and the grass.
I see that. I should tend to that, I said.
You really need to or you’ll have
no lawn this summer, he said.
Thanks. I’ll tend to it. Sorry about
your mom, I said. Thanks. It’s okay.
I’m okay. We’re okay. She was 89.
She lived a full life. She died in her
sleep. Real peaceful. I hope I go
like that. In my sleep. Don’t forget
the lawn. And the garden needs
work, too. Don’t forget the garden,
he said. I won’t forget, I said.