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The One About Philosophers


by Darryl Price


I don't know what to say, but some 
small part of me wants to say it 
anyway. I'm not supposed to 
ever care about you again, 
if you don't care about me, but 
some central part of that equation
 
goes on caring. I don't know 
what it is you deserve, but I 
do think you probably deserve 
a compassionate piece of my 
mind that would never classify 
you as unlovable in a 

million trillion years. You are not 
just another statistical 
number in a field book, but the 
world remains a mysterious 
mathematical problem to 
some. It drives them crazy with desire. 

The philosophers follow 
their obsessed example, going 
in droves over the cliffs trying 
to catch the Big Question in its 
birthday suit. They wind up in tiny rooms, 
drooling blindly at the 

confounding sunset. I can't save 
you, but if we're both lucky, I 
could remind you to save yourself 
once in a blue moon. Just for fun. 
As a kind of wave from the backseat 
of a speeding car. Or star. 

Have it your way. In a poem. 
There. Satisfied?  I don't know what 
to say because the words won't come
when I call them, but they still like 
to snuggle up next to me on 
the couch when I'm feeling lonely.  
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