The light sticks scurry around,
In disarray or in sheer obedience;
You're drawn to a faint sound,
And ponder its muddling cadence.
Then, the sticks stop and stare,
Daring you to read their formation;
Could you, you'd look elsewhere,
Yet the daze preempts desperation.
You see, trace, and recognize,
Aware of a stutter in the usual flow;
What a chance to philosophize,
On life measured in numbers aglow!
Yet, the numbers command,
Call you to think and act sans ado;
Gently you squeeze her hand,
Thank the Lord that's all you need do.
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