"The Tangent of a Tan Gent"

A tan gent,

leaning at forty‑five degrees,

claims he’s the smooth curve’s confidant—

always brushing infinity,

never quite settling down.

In Tangiers,

he orders a tangerine martini,

insists the pulp is proof that geometry

tastes better with zest.

Locals laugh: “Your line kisses the circle,

then bolts like a tourist avoiding souvenirs.”

He tips his hat, pretends the horizon is his date,

and winks at the coastline— a joke only calculus gets.

Still remains: the citrus peel spirals,

the gent spins his tangent tale,

in a city buzzing its angles

no one bothers to measure.

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