zander foster poetry

We’re losing numbers.
Seven went out to look for Nine and hasn’t been back.
Twenty-Six pushed Twenty-Five into a lake, so he’s dead.
And all that’s left of the 170’s is the three.
I don’t understand why this keeps happening.
When I was young, there were few enough to keep track of.
But now they’re dropping like flies and I can only save the ones on the radio.
I guess no one cares because they never got to know the numbers like I did.
Like how Three is always unsure, and Zero likes public speaking.
I’m sure they all think One is the best because she is the first after Nothing –but she isn’t.
Five was always my favourite because he looked out for Three and wore a big blue coat.
I wish the people would see the love Nine has for Eight.
Maybe then they would understand why Nine…

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