eight thousand equations

My pencil falls from my twitching hand
My glasses hurt my nose
And there is this nasty
tingle between my shoulder blades

I look at the dregs
in the bottom of the tepid cup
I look around the room
for an excuse to end this analysis
I scratch an itch
crack my knuckles
Grumble something
even I don’t understand

Pick up the pencil

Only eight thousand more equations
to go

Published by

Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

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