I am a number.
A first try,
A dozenth time,
A score,
By which I am remembered.

I’m told to fit a figure.
A size,
A length,
A measurable point,
Against which I am deemed average.

My mind, though, is weary of digits
That budget me,
Worth me,
Design me,
So that I am an equation
And as such can be figured, estimated, predicted.

Even my socks are numbered and matched,
To avoid a waste of counted seconds,
Precious as they are,
Precisely as they’re followed.

Dare we lose a moment
On account of a statistic,
On an investment?
We are all just numbers after all.
Falling orderly in line,
Ranked and placed accordingly,
Waiting to be counted off,
By tries,
And times,
And scores.