I do not care for the Rubik's Cube,
her juvenile form feigning complexity.
She deceives lesser men, turning her over
endlessly, falling in love with her
disco looks, a few memorized turns
of phrase to impress the uninitiated. And you,
shame is fitting, spending hours together
watching CSI, washing your hands
before touching her, now blindly turning
her clockwise, counter-clockwise, toiling to bring her
to symmetry. For if you can be wooed
by lengthy arithmetic -- her charade
is to be the great conquest you look back to
to remind you of your vigor -- you deserve each other.
(Although a child once wrote on how to finish her in 45 seconds or less.)
I, on the other hand, would much rather the leggy elegance of the integral
who does not care if I brush my teeth before we kiss, wrapping her
unknowns in functions I long to solve, pulling
the bristles of my beard toward her, ready to take me
from zero to infinity, bringing my hand close
to her thigh as I reach for the area beneath her curves.