Yard Sale of Thoughts

Words have meat. They fill what's empty inside us, 
satiate brain chemistry.

Numbers are diuretic; they run write through us,
make us cross. Force us to subtract, simplify, follow
orders, admit a loss.

"Siri, what is pi?"

I stare at the reply, but I can't stomach 
the numbers repeating senselessly.

Art defies the balance sheet.

Graph paper is for squares, 
the 01100011001 guys
give me the creeps.  

Besides, receipts can be journals
should inspiration find you broke
after a shopping spree.

But in all honesty, 
both the poet and the accountant have been tasked
with an important job:
 
to ensure accuracy.

Prepare returns for life's investments,
manage the records of human destiny.

©2025|K.F.Hartless

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GloPoWriMo #3: Today, we challenge you to write a poem that obliquely explains why you are a poet and not some other kind of artist – or, if you think of yourself as more of a musician or painter (or school bus driver or scuba diver or expert on medieval Maltese banking) – explain why you are that and not something else!

Cover Art: “Dictionopolis” by artman7391

Oh, it’s too delicious not to share. Let’s just say, I knew which team I was on from an early age.