I brush chalk from my hands.
I’ve finished.
The boy sneezes.
He puts his Nintendo down,
mutters: does that really mean anything?
I say: wipe your nose.
How do I tell a small, scowling child
that this final set of chalk marks,
this glorious, transcendent equation,
unifies the four fundamental forces?
How do I tell him that I have calculated
the true nature of gravity?
I say: yes. It explains everything.
It tells me why you are here,
where you came from, how our world
and all the other worlds began,
and how they will end.
He says: bet it can’t tell me
what I’m having for tea tonight.
I say: beans on toast.
He says: and ice-cream for pudding?
I study the chalk marks.
I say: yes, and ice-cream for pudding.