That Which Cannot Be Divided By Anything But One and Itself

Poem of the Day:
"Prime Number" Laurie Lamon
Without Wings


Lamon writes of warped human figures, scarred bodies much like, I suppose, the lonely tenants of prime numberhood. Also, many of the people about which she writes are disfigured while aboard public transit; there is the "man who has already/gone to his death in a subway" (lines 2-3) and the "woman sitting on a bus where two dozen/are seated at an intersection" (lines 9-10).

At first, I thought this poem was a perfect link to my diurnal public transportation experience. The bus by nature self-selects its passengers -- those who do not have a car, cannot afford a taxi, and cannot even afford the T (a bus ride is .50c cheaper than a ride on the subway) ride the bus. It is a strange and often sorrowful lot.

Therefore Lamon's poem seemed to perfectly reflect my understanding of bus-goers, as if she had spent a day with me, swiping her Charlie Card at each turnstyle. "AND," I thought, "I ride a PRIME NUMBER bus to my internship, bus 91. How more perfect could this get?!"

Alas, my math is not so great.

Apparently 91 is divisible by 13 and 7. Who knew?


Sincerely,
A Poem (Not a Math Problem) A Day Audrey