I was, I think, the youngest
high-school sophomore,
pimply, poor and shy.
Classes were undemanding
and I rarely did homework,
but geometry proved annoying.
The teacher used a ruse
to encourage mathematic focus,
offering to give a course ‘A’
to any student who could prove
the hinky problem she presented.
My salvation was clear.
I worked on the problem at home,
getting nowhere until, while bathtubbing,
solution floated up from the dirty suds.
I jumped out of the tub, dripping
and naked, ran to my notepad
and wrote down the steps.
The teacher approved my proof
and gave me the course ‘A,”
allowing me to mentally malinger
for the rest of the semester.
Never since have I been able
to re-engage that acuity.
Wet or dry, naked or clothed,
advanced algebra and calculus
give me logic constipations
that haunt me into dotage.
But I had my shining, unknown
moment to rival Archimedes.
