top of page
What we do for coherence
exclaimed Tradismus smacking his lips,
green cheese, we smear her page with it
looking up at the sky from our kitchens
See how delicately she floats across
my curtained window. Coherence
is a lady, a mystery waiting to be solved
Part her curtains, reveal her secrets. She’s
modest. My predictions wooed her beneath
six layers of underclothing. But the seventh?
They were married for an impossible
number of light years. Here under my plate
I have written on the tablecloth an exact
formula for calculating it.
I see you do not understand. Why bother?
Take up poetry instead, music, cooking.
Each man is born to his own vision. Have
some more green cheese.
© Johnmichael Simon
bottom of page