In the Aftermath of an Engineering Binge / Bob Ambrose

My muse flipped me off last week
after too many midnights, head caught
in code, tweaking time step solvers
on an engineering binge.

She said you left that years ago
for herons, shoals, and metered lines
and who but those like you could find
your mind entranced in strings of code?

I said it’s just a short-time thing
      an algorithm coding fling
      my simulation fantasy
to make a number cruncher sing.

Just fine she said, half out the door
      composing raunchy metaphor
it’s art, I argued, and what’s more
my colleagues all swear, and you know’em

my programs resemble a poem:
      they tend to abort
      a syllable sort
ambiguous functions the normmm.

As I said, my muse
      flipped me off last week.
Took up with a wild-eyed type,
      my evil twin Sal

who drives a souped-up symbol –
      nineteen sixty seven
      or eight mustang
which has nothing on my hybrid

when it comes to efficiency.
She was last seen riding shotgun
      top down, streaming
      raucous lines, the kind

she knows I never use. To choose
      the wild, a touch
      obtuse and bad
career move for a muse

‘cause reptile brains just cannot write.
      So I propose
      a compromise
pour tu, cher muse, inverse haiku:

     “Wake up soon and savor dawn
             engineer by day             
       after sunset, yield to art”

So ready now to channel
      phrases, randy words  
      stoked in the queue
long overdue, when can we start?

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