If he was a mathematician he would be a pedophile and he
could have his way with her, and she
would trillywalk along the
skipping colonnade and vanish in the
fecal-green water and maketh
new mansions of stone and straw.
The geese would laud such attempts, perhaps
stealing sandwiches from frightened passers-by:
old gerobiddies in fox-fure coats that
billow like smokestacks, feet shoved into
duck taped ballet slippers which enable them
to scuttle around like scarabs and suddenly pointe
at odd places along the riverwalk.
Because I knew a girl who killed her baby
when she herself was only an infant; she couldn't count
or breathe numbers, still wore kitty-cat ears
atop her shortie-tom hair;
such a ratty, undefined brown, so completely
ordinary that it is a barnacle on my
polyphonic mem'ry. And forgive me
if I want to fuck him up— her mathematician
made a curly-haired caricature dipshit
and called him a kid.

The boy
can't work [with]
surgical gloves.