The Poet as a Young Girl

He played with her each day
A game of math and meter
To teach her first grade numbers.

"1 6 8 9 7," she said
The number on his forearm
And tickled him to say
His tattoo poem again
With vocal tones that smiled
As sad as violins
She heard in bed at night.

On other days they'd do some other digits
Up or down, back and forth again
With added tricks and poems for her,
Subtractions in his mind,

And when she said them as she should,
Jacob laughed so hard to cry
A tear he'd try to hide from her.

In later years, they often played
With memories, some Manischewitz
Wine on Sunday "yes, please, dear,"
Survival, meaning, and hope for her,

And this is what she writes today
From the numbers on his mind.