Once upon a time

an accountant there was

who numbers loved 
And every day

numbers flew in

and numbers floated away

and days were numbers

and also gloves and boots and

numbers counted the noodles 
in his soup as he ate it
Until one day began

the numbers to slip

their shapes, to stand

up off their stools, to spool

into nests of number

and start to nap
And grew afraid the accountant

and strung up by elbows

the numbers and

to their chairs

he tied them with garden

twine and wire
And could not move

the numbers now or wave
 
or cartwheel their dance,

their fountaining over

each other all over, forgot,

the way they rose to the top

and tumbled down

began to be a dream
Until at last sneaked out

the accountant from his corner

to cut with nail scissors

the bonds, to filch

from the window an inch of air

to nudge a number, struggling,

to the sill and watch it, gasping,
toss itself out over into

the hedge. And then its brother.
 
And then its mother. And then

its son. Each number went.

Except for one.
And since that day ever

holds he the zero

to himself, at center chest,
 
hand over its open mouth

so hear he cannot

the tiny ringing cry: alone,
 
alone, alone,
 
alone.
Emily Bedard is our Poet in Residence for November.


Previously: Finale.