Wherever I go
a couple of uninvited hikers march
by my side;
two black, fat figures,
a number seven and a number three

They come across like cartoon characters,
behave like stoned junkies
that I can't get rid of

I know their kind!

They try to keep up,
figure their calculus,
but they're just digits, I think to myself

”You're just digits!”
I yell at them

They jerk, flinch,
but continue by my side

They have a hard time shadow-biking
beside me in the ditch-bank
'round ancient Uppsa Mound royal tomb
and the viking stone ship grave at Lid;
obese, unwieldy, sweaty, rubbery digits;
a 7 and a 3

They're with me all over the place and always

When I sleep the lie on the rag-rug
on the floor
below my bed, snoring and farting,
damned bummer numbers!

I come back home with them in tow
after 40 miles of mountain biking
on 1 May,
shower, down a quart of protein liquid
and lie down on top of the bed
under my heavy, deep blue Indian blanket,
listening to Shivkumar Sharma and his santoor
in Raga Purya Dhanashri

The digits stand around in the doorway, hesitating

”You're just digits!”, I snap at them,
close my eyes, fold my hands on my belly
and enjoy the music

They're like bodyguards!
As long as I live,
they have to respond accordingly, match

This year they're a 7 and a 3,
though they're just digits, empty symbols,
who can stick it up their asses,
all day long, and then again!