The math teacher would draw a circle, freehand,
On the blackboard
And then show, with a compass,
That it was perfect.

He would say: “I can draw a perfect circle, freehand.”
And so he did.

The bums on Wentworth Street work the line of cars
Until the light changes,
And then they start again back at the crosswalk.

Viewed from the ninth floor of the hotel,
I am reminded of the time-lapse photography
Of flowers blooming, or stars wheeling.

In school, I used to donate blood plasma.
They would take out your blood, then put it back in.
The math teacher had worked 30 years in industry,
Then retired to take a teaching job,
Drawing circles from which we were to learn.

We’re right back where we started.
God laughs at you.
“Good to see you again,” says God, laughing.

Ah, well.
The tree-chained dog
With a sharp, perfect circle defining
Your limit
Or even
The wind-driven clocks
Of reeds on sand dunes
Keeping God’s own time.

 

 

©2003 Donald W. Hayward