Those Singularities

They hide around the corner

and beneath my bed at night.

You can’t lay a finger on them,

like an eggshell in the white.

 

Those singularities.

Where they get off, I don’t understand.

Those lack-of-parities.

Not a rule of space-time brought to hand.

Those singularities.

Going their own way and lacking class.

Flouting verities.

I wouldn’t know if one had slapped my ass.

 

The curves of space-time infinitely gorge.

So everybody should maintain their space.

When Picard hails both Riker and La Forge,

you know that sector is a nutty place.

They say no wormhole is directly spied.

I’m vigilant and take that fact to heart.

I twist my neck oblique and squint my eye.

And you should see the sidewalk traffic part.

 

Those singularities.

Always hard to tell where they might be.

They won’t dare to sneeze,

even when you call out 'oxen free'.

 

They make me feel so ineffective.

Going past event horizon,

I stub my toe and spout invective.

Is it worth it even risin’?

 

Those singularities.

Keep to themselves, minding their own biz.

Like American cheese,

you can never tell just what it is.

Those singularities.

Tinkering with the cosmic tissues.

Yes, they’re a rarity.

I’m just a guy who harbors cosmic issues.

 

I swore that if I ever found one,

I’d teach that thing a lesson.

I would make that wormhole crumble.

That is what it’d get for messin’.

 

But that was silly.

 

Those singularities.

Rebels in the realm of space and time.

In Hesperides

they gather and enjoy the balmy clime.

 

They’re a major pain between the temples.

On the theme I cannot isolate a clue.

But they’re an artifact not mathly bound, it’s simple.

Heck, I’m bad at math and artificial, too.

 

Those singularities.

Wedging universal doors ajar.

Lacking clarities.

But you gotta love ‘em as they are.