Psych 101: we just cant get enough
of the man who lathers only half his beard,
or suddenly cant clap, for in the weird
theres so much beauty. So were taught. Its tough,
this life of scholarship and incidental
romanticizing of a foreign pain.
How bout that famed autistic girl from Maine
whose mezzo lilt can hunt down accidentals
elusive to the sharpest kick-line girls?
She only needs to hear a song once, slow,
and she can imitate it, doesnt know
she shouldnt sing the skipping. (That one curls
our hair for sure.) Then theres the man who crams
the dozen roman numerals in half
the clock, tries to tell time. You do the math.
Steadfast in our search for living cryptograms,
we, like beloved aphasics, stand struck dumb
as little Doris settles in to play,
and, with a slight vibrato, sings some day
my prince will come, will come, will come, will come.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 25 Number 7, on page 31
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