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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.

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© Johnmichael Simon



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