in our lives,
we are able
to rely upon
a limitless supply
of inspiration;
from our bountiful
dreams, we pluck
copious reminders
that one plus one
is not always
two,
and that fair and fowl
sometimes don't
cancel out each other.
But sooner or later,
the hard times
must hit,
and we're ordered
to ration and restrict
away the abstract.
Little by little,
our belts
grow tighter,
our skins, red
and thinner,
and our vision,
dimmed and tired—
until, at last,
all we're left with
is the discourse
of arithmetic—
an accounting
of our worth
using dry,
brittle sticks.
Only now,
stick plus stick
seems to always yield
two sticks—
whereas back
when we could dream,
stick plus stick
might mean
fire.
