Brocca, Area 44

Part 1
3.141592654...
He sighed and dropped his pencil
and rubbed his eyes
clockwise, then counter-clockwise.

To be a circle,
drifting in endless loops.

Part 2
The dawn had just broken
before the pot of coffee was ready,
timed just right to allow the sunlight
to refract inside the urn and then
muddle with the steamy, black coffee.

He picked up his pencil and transcribed:
                  3.141592654...
He put his pencil beside his breakfast and
rubbed his temples
clockwise, then counter-clockwise.

To be a circle, transcribed in another circle,
drifting in endless loops.

Part 3
His desk is farther from the door here
than it is at home.
It must be by design.
The same comforts of home can't be
afforded to the
workplace. Otherwise, the drive to home
wouldn't be filled with relief and wine.
It would be filled with other emotions
he has yet to grasp.

The chalkboards-turned-whiteboard are
his poetry.
He has long forgotten how to use a calculator.
These numbers, both
                 real and
                imaginary
        are his constant bed partners
            varying nightly,
coaxing him to sleep and
stroking his hair like his mother used to do,
like his wife used to do...
           3.141592654
He sighed and put his pencil next to his
thin tin of paper clips before he opened his mouth
to a new
              "To be a circle,
          transcribed in another circle,
    tangential to the vertex of a triangle..."
tangential to my daily cup of coffee.

He rubbed his anxiety/frustration/anger/uncertainty/happiness
clockwise, then counter-clockwise.

3.141592654...
an endless number, content with itself.

Part 4
Sunday,
the coffee pot beat the sunrise,
siphoning the night into its crystalline base.
He stood, swimming in the predawn shadows,
as his wall clock reminded him that
as he approached the speed of light
he is still spinning
clockwise.

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