UNORTHODOX MATHEMATICIAN

You must have been born
under a mathematical sign,
because everything
has to add up
reduce down
divide into
or multiply by:
three
seven
or nine.

I once lived in a six-roomed apartment,
and no amount of cajoling could induce you
to set foot over the threshold;
not even when I swore on my life
that your world really wouldn't implode
if you did.
You just sat there on my doorstep,
sipping your coffee and shivering
in the dead of winter, saying
you'd much rather freeze to death
than dare risk tempting fate!

I expect you remember, too, that time
when five letters landed on your doormat?
How you had a major panic attack?
You simply couldn't get your head around
the audacity of these
little white squares of paper
to challenge you to such a degree.
You screamed at me to 'GET RID OF THEM!'
I refused, 'because,' I said,
'they may be important.'
So you sat on the floor in the hall,
dumbly staring at them; clearly
in some kind of trauma.
In the end,
you had to tear two of them in half - to
make up seven, of course.
But even then you couldn't rest:
had to go back and tear
another two to make nine,
it being the higher and, therefore,
most important of the
three numbers.

And as for crossing the road - a
simple enough task, one would think.
Not for you!
Seven vehicles have to pass
before you dare step onto the highway.
It has to be seven precisely,
even if the eighth is following
perilously close behind it.
How many times has an enraged
number eight threatened to kill you,
after screeching to a halt
with number nine firmly embedded
up his backside?
I'm more than convinced you really do
have eight more lives in reserve!

Another big ordeal for you
is eating a packet of crisps.
You have to open them,
count them out,
and if the contents inside aren't divisible
by one of your three numbers
then they're consigned to the nearest bin.
Another pack is then opened
and the process begins again.
Needless to say, you
have to buy your crisps
by the truckload.

And as for your love-life, well,
that has always been 'troubled'
to put it mildly.
The phrase 'one-to-one' just isn't
in your vocabulary.
You're nothing if not predictable.
There have to be three, seven,
or nine on the go at any one time
(now there's a surprise!).
The black eyes, broken noses
and lost teeth must surely
earn you an entry in the
Guinness Book of Records
as 'Most Fought-Over Woman!'

These days,
I often sit and wonder
how it will eventually end - your
life, I mean.
Knowing you as I do, it
certainly won't be peacefully
in bed, of old age.
You'd loath that.
No. It would have to be
in some way numerical and dramatic,
such as the Celtic Triple Death.
Yes, that's it!
Falling,
hanging
then drowning.
And, naturally, you'd accept no less
than a pyramid
as your final resting place -
guarded, of course, by
a triumvirate of Goddess statues.
Only then would you rest in peace:
the unorthodox mathematician
numerically lulled to sleep.