“There are eight sides to every argument,”
she said while sliding through a four-way stop.
But I’m a programmer, paid to think in ones and zeroes,
ons and offs, trues and false, though I see her point
as the car stops spinning and she accepts the direction
of chance. At this time of night we’re alone on the road,
in a shades of grey world— white snow, black ice
and muddled slush.
As the winter sky rotates above us. I try to impress
her with my astronomy, naming the cold sharpened stars
of the Winter Hexagon— Sirius, Rigel, Aldebaran,
Capella, Castor, Pollux and Procyon. “Even the bees,”
she reminds me, “know better than to put seven sides
on a honeycomb.”