He knows the second cousin of the stepson
of the professor who wrote my physics text.
He knows the precise formula for the chemical
in my popsicle that makes it taste like cherry
instead of grape.
He knows the intricate mating habits
of the little black bugs that make their home
among the roots of my favorite spider plant.
He knows the favorite ice cream of the granddaughter
of the aged woman who painted the flourescent numbers
on my desk-top alarm clock.
He knows the name of the beagle that belongs to the girl
who stomped on the grapes that went into the wine
that I drank last night.
He knows many things, but he doesn't know that,
sometimes, the mind, like most fifty-eight-year-old
women, should not be exposed.
good one
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