Poem By William B. Deutscher
Cryptic, these discrete fragments of wordage
Mulled at the kitchen table during lunch
Or late in the evening prior to sleep;
Good for the brain some physicians might say,
This sparking of synapses, now reaching
Here and there for odd pieces of knowledge
Miscellaneously scattered over
The expanse of culture both high and low,
And in between: "What the hell does that mean? "
You mumble, scratching at signifers.