familiar mathematics

the hexagon smells like leather
as your father draws the figure
with a skinny piece of chalk;
you've always wondered how
he teaches, where the words
turn into numbers, when sex
made an appearance in his
sticky pants. he's just about
mahogany, just about burnt
colors in his study, wine,
and equations written out,
sprawled lazy white on green,
his face covered in question
marks, his mouth slightly closed.

oh, papa, listen to madonna
and don't you preach to me.

A/N: I don't know, either.