THE HOUSE OF CORRECTION
The computer clock connects to an Internet station
every five minutes. There is no ground for inaccuracy.
I trust my husband when he provides technical data.
After recurrent F's in math exams, numbers terrorize me.
Like the ones in his cellular phone. There must be
some reason the women on the other line dial wrong.
He cites the statistics of probability. I am easy picking
for a calculus professor; my attention span is short.
Fact is the time on my screen runs late. While he sleeps,
I check his wristwatch, watch the metal hands at work.
Errors cast distorted shadows on the wall. I am human
and live with mine like a leper banging the gong.
The subtractions in our joint account come from motels.
Perhaps I am not the fool to be entrusted with his lies.
I am very bad with measurements. Will half a pint
of bleach in his water produce satisfactory results?
In this house there is still room for correction.
If confronted, I will admit it was all a dreadful mistake.
Stirring, 2River View, The Pedestal Magazine, Drexel Online Journal, Melic Review, Tryst, etc.
Current | Previous
Submit | Editors
Join | Donate
Links | Contact