The acid logician		(an algebra teacher)
is having a birthday.		As old as his father
(that old dog, of many		names: A., with a bathtub
which he fills at rate x		as it drains at rate y;
K., foreman of a crew		of forlorn ditchdiggers;
even Q., trying to		row his boat down the stream
gently, while headwinds and		currents fight for control)
was, when the sum of their ages		was double their difference,
and their differences (more		even than now) burnt holes
in every tablecloth,		clogged all the sinks with muck,
he has invited just		one guest, his riddling friend,
to whom he explains: "You		can take a slow bull to
a china shop, but you		can't make him take himself
seriously, by the horns."		Then it's ice cream and cake;
one candle to grow on.		"A fish of a different
kettle"...not much of an		answer, but all he gets
while his friend is chewing		things over. As they move
to the presents (mostly		from himself), his friend speaks:
"Each man sets his own price		in the fleamarket of
ideas; Everyman		is for himself; it's not
just a matter of taste		who's overboard with (first)
the rats, then the children."		"Diogenes! Do you
remember? That dog is		your dog. That dog is a
father. Therefore..." but he		can't seem to master his
voice, and neither completes		the syllogism. "Don't
shoot fish in the barrel		you're living in. I brought
this for you." The smallest		of gifts, the end of the
alphabet, it falls through		the dark, a singing lamp.