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“Do you think that you are able,

To do your math here at the table?”


“I will,” he says. “Because I’m able,

Do my math here at the table.”

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I see fingers; I see paper.

But my boy’s become a vapor.


The pencil moves; the paper slides.

And math is done from deep inside.

02 07 14_6205

My face can’t help but stretch in smile,

To match the tube scrunched in a pile.


Because it ain’t pretty, but he is able,

To do his math here at the table.



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