The Problem with 3
3 doesn’t know it’s overexposed.
Just look at it, mugging for the camera,
mouth open, ready to devour 1 and 2.
3 insinuates itself into crowds –
Jesus, Mary, Joseph, the Father,
the Son, the Holy Ghost, the Fates,
the Furies, the Graces, the hearts
of a squid, the pieces of a suit,
the beginning, the middle, the end.
3 needs to lie on its back, let another
number take center stage.
With both curves on the floor,
3 could be an adorable derriere,
a waxed-tip moustache, a wave
in the ocean. 3 could be 2 –
2 smiles, 2 chins, a pair of mango
breasts, 2 arms open for company.
Writing this poem helped me make it through an MRI this morning. I wrote it in my head while the machine droned like a jack hammer outside a window. The MRI is done, I’m fine, and poetry lives on!