THE MAVEN
(a poem that doesn’t ask the question: “Do mites have
ears?”)
by
Severt Score
Once upon a dead mite’s ear
was found a dozen dead bacteria,
Twelve microscopic corpses on
that arachnid on the floor.
As I spied that dead arachnid
I wondered what kind of whack did
Dispatch that tiny creature
to the land beyond death’s door.
What sent that little mite on
to the land beyond death’s door.
Tell me that, if nothing
more.
Was it some miniscule mugger
or a commercial de-bugger
That made that mite expire --
something he’d never done before?
Was it victim of a swatter?
Did it die from lack of water?
Did it starve for lack of
food because to buy it was too poor?
Was it victim of starvation
because to buy it was too poor?
What dispatched it through
death’s door?
Was it gout or was it dropsy?
Should we ask for an autopsy?
Should some wise forensic
wizard probe this mystery to the core?
Could some wise police
detective help us gain the right perspective
In the matter of the demise
of the mite upon the floor?
Could he find an explanation
of that body on the floor?
At least that, if nothing
more.
We went up to New Haven and
retained an able maven.
(“Maven” is a Yiddish word
for one who knows the score
And can go without confusion
straight to the right conclusion.)
He had been solving mysteries
for thirty years or more.
Expert in forensic medicine
thirty years or more.
Oh, that maven knew the
score!
Well, he came down to our
city to pursue the nitty gritty
Details of the mystery that
made our brains so sore.
He was persistent. He was
thorough. He carefully turned each furrow
As he plowed through all the
evidence -- o’er the facts did pore.
He left no stone unturned --
o’er all evidence did pore.
Oh, that maven knew the score!
Oh, whatever did that cop
see? Naught was found in the autopsy
But the dozen ear borne
corpses that we told about before.
All he found in the
inspection was a petered out infection --
Just a dozen dead bacteria --
only that, and nothing more.
Only twelve deceased bacteria
on the ear, and nothing more.
Just a dozen, three times
four.
Well, it seems that each
bacterium had succumbed to some strong serum,
But not before the arachnid
was a corpse upon the floor.
Given sooner that same serum
might have conquered each bacterium
In time to save their tiny
host and snatch it from death’s door.
Given sooner might have saved
it from passage through death’s door.
Now it’s dead upon the
floor.
Or perhaps some stronger sera
could have conquered the bacteria.
Some powerful medications
might have held some hope in store.
But saddest words of tongue or
pen, as the poet said, are “It might have been.”
And what might have been did
not occur, so it hit the floor.
For want of stronger sera the
arachnid hit the floor,
Stiffer than a two by four.
Can you tell us, clever
sleuth, relentless stalker of the truth,
If you find this kind of germ
when a mite’s ear you explore,
Does twelve seem an average
count, or what’s the usual amount?
When a mite’s ear you
explore, is it less or is it more?
Quoth the maven, “Never more.
Sometimes less, but never more.”
Quoth the maven, “Never
more.”
“To find none is always nice.
I’ve found a dozen once or twice.
“The usual number I have
found is in the range of three or four.
“Six or seven is not so
strange, but three or four’s the usual range.
“I have found twelve but
never more when a mite’s ear I explore.
“No arachnid has ever more
when its ear I explore.”
Quoth the maven, “Never
more.”
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| The view out Grandpa's window.... I'm so thankful for my dad's poetry, as it offers a means to glimpse the world through his eyes. I hope my children will come to cherish this heritage of humor and creativity. |
