Counting Sheep
What does a poet count?
Words, smiles, chuckles or frowns?
A bee counts flowers,
If it could.
A mother counts diaper changes,
meals, clogged toilets and stolen winks of sleep.
A programmer counts his lines of code,
and the number of coffee cups and pajama weeks.
The grocery shopper counts her deliveries, tips
and another escaped sick day.
The hairstylist has no hair nor heads to count
She does count the bare shelves in her kitchen.
A scientist counts blips and signals
and the exponentially decreasing number of rational minds.
The toddler hasn’t learnt to count.
Thank goodness.
The auto-mechanic counts rust spots
and drops of engine oil on his shop floor.
The farmer counts rotting heads of lettuce,
and spoilt cartons of milk.
The pilot counts empty skies, and full hangars.
He finally finishes counting cloud animals, squinting up in the bright sunlight.
The pastors counted empty pews, now emptier ones.
The defiant pastors recount their God Given Rights.
The left counts deaths, masks, or the lack thereof
The right dis-counts the counts of the left.
(And they said mathematics was the only absolute science).
We all (one hopes foolishly) count 6 feet, count dodgeball points.
Count 20 seconds and count 2 Happy Birthdays.
The traffic lights count themselves down.
The laid-off worker lays awake, trying to count sheep,
and the number of people allowed to attend the funeral
of his wife who he wished goodbye on the phone.
