A Hard-Boiled Theory of Everything

She comes into the office.  She is a doll
and also good at a math.  We smoke electric cigarettes
and smoulder at each other for a while....

Somebody wants to kill my theory, she finally
admits.  I found my notebook torn to bits
and they've formatted my drive.  Oh...

and someone dropped a warhead on my car.  I stare.
She shrugs.  It wasn't armed, but it
smashed the driver's side.  She bites her lip:

I guess I'm lucky to be alive.  Can you help?
The cardinality of her legs is two and I can prove
nothing, but suspect they're infinite.

Somebody is smashing hadrons in the street
I've spoken to them about it before and she...
she's found my liquor cabinet, got the blackboard from behind

and started scrawling equations as if she owns the place.  Sure,
I tell the blonde, you'd like me to believe you.
You'd like me not to notice the derivation

error in the upper left, or that the stats assume
symmetry even at very high energies...
I've made her sad.  I don't like that, but feelings,

like feeling like a heel, we theorists learn to ignore,
although this is going nowhere.  So I go easier on her.
Look sister, I'm not saying your theory is wrong

but this is a dirty town full of hard old academics.
It's going to take more than chalk to prove your case.
I reach for the phone.  I know some people down the lab...

let me lean on them a little.  I dial.  She smiles.
I wonder who is taking who and for what sort of ride.

Ian Badcoe

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Ian Badcoe  would be pleased to hear them