Anders Persson was born with a knack to be an engineer;
he was cursed to understand mechanics, thermodynamics,
electromagnetism and even math.
At eleven he had built himself a ham-radio
but he only listened and never talked; his first love affair was
the reverse Polish notation of his HP calculator.
He could draw a perfect circle with his compass and
divide it fairly with a ruler. He listened well but never talked.
Anders worked at night to pay for school but spent it all
on his brand new personal computer.
Anders never went to parties, but one day he found
his way into a cubicle where he worked designing missile
guiding systems. He observed it all but never spoke.
Anders Person’s hair turned gray and he never counted years
until the day he was made redundant and realized
he could retire doing nothing. He was used to silence
and fit himself inside a cubicle at home. Blended with the walls.
He started counting days but when
he’d counted up to hundred one he ceased to count,
and sat, waiting to be carried out.
They say it was the smell that made the neighbor
call for the Police, and no-one really knows which day
he passed away.
The subject at toads is to write an Eulogy of a stranger. I think my is a combination of many engineers I have met in the corridor at work, so I probably stretched the rules a bit. I also link this poem to the Poetry Pantry