Thinker sat on his rock.
“Think, I’ll think on the clock!”
He thought as he rocked.
“What secret shall I un-box?”
He pulled out the stops,
And rocked on his rock on the clock.
“Ah, strife and struggle crushed to a block!”
He reduced the clay and dirtied his smock.
“A perfect reduction!” Feeling internal shock.
“It’s so simple,
This reductionist block.
Now what else to solve,
While I rock on my rock?”
Checking the clock, no time to unfrock.
“Well, why can’t they eat cake?”
He rocked in his smock on his rock.
© CGT, 2017.
Obol is a poet and an infrequent writer of prose.