Lack Of Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I wonder if my calculator
could figure out your soul.
It seems to be, filled to the top
with symbols of strange science
and lateral philosophy,
instead of tepid sap
that warms its molecules
when something just like me,
a radical with electrons
to spare and itching to get square.

Though never in defiance,
not following convention's rules.
Free radical, forever free
and scripted to run marathons.

Abundant energy on tap,
inside its mind a single goal.
And all you say to me is STOP?

If you would share in this affair,
be present at the time and space.
Daydreaming can be practiced later,
though I have etched your olive face
inside my head as a possession.

So, would you kindly let it be.
Switch off your evening expression.
Stop staring at that bloody waiter!