The Boy Who, Science Teased

Sat amongst piles of paperwork, in one corner lay dirty laundry,

Here begins the story of Michael Mostafa Mistry, all and sundry,
Born to Parsi parents in California, a town named Sunnyvale,
Mostafa perched his rickety legs crossed, skin dusky and pale.

"No more sauce with my mozzarella topping,
Mum, let me read in peace, my favorite Stephen Hawking."
All of fourteen he was, her little Michael,
Every morning at six, he'd ride all the way to school on his bicycle,
Passer byes never failed to greet as he held tightly onto the handle,
Swinging his bag unto the cushioned saddle,
Whistled his way to school, legs tending to the pedal.

On reaching school, he'd rush to the Chemical Lab every morning,
The lab instructor would always interrogate, he cared not about his frowning.
Mistry shared a strange bond with Chemistry,
In his sleep every night, he'd visualize molecular structure and symmetry,
Hydrocarbons, alkalies, acids and bases,
His little world was full of didactic mazes.

Cleaned up the little table in the middle,
As if almost daily, he got down to solving a new riddle,
The instructor looked on with his eyes rolled and wide,
Little bothered Mostafa about him, he saw only the far side.
For two years now, a plan toyed inside his cranium skull,
He was attempting to stitch a verbose nerve inside all brains dull.

That little girl, who lived in his neighborhood,
She wore sparkling silver and beads like no one else could,
But Mostafa sensed a great discomfort,
Scared he was; if only she'd say a no, he'd be terribly hurt,
Now Mostafa sprinkled some Cobalt Nitrate in the jar,
As it turned gray, blue and finally red; it smelt of coal tar.

Thought Michael, a mixture of the queer smelling potion,
Could well work with Vaseline or antiseptic lotion.
So that evening, he invited her to a game of tennis,
Parked his bicycle in the stands, as he walked into the lawns,
Holding in one hand, a racket and another - a purse daddy got from Venice.

Little Katie, she looked pretty in her pink frock,
She marched ahead into the front lawns of Mrs. Hancock,
Michael seized this opportunity, called Aunt Hancock outside,
Very knowingly he assumed, she'd invite both inside.
So it was the case this time like always,
Mostafa smiled as he saw with amusement, her sun-kissed face.

The pineapple syrup that evening, Aunt forgot in the adjacent wing,
Mostafa took a probabilistic chance at commotion creating,
What could well do for him, a wonder;
All he could pray was, there be no blunder,
If only he'd pop the question tonight,
He was sure, he'd be treated to some heartwarming delight.

The magical potion with Cobalt Nitrate now lay ready,
Michael Mostafa pretended a scene as if everything was sound and steady.
Katie gazed at the glass full to the brim,
As he hoped, it'd surely raise heaven and bring down the stars for him.
One sip at a time, she took,
While Mostafa watched with an ominous look.

Finally when the glass was finished,
Katie fell to the ground, for weeks and months he'd wished,
Rubbed the antiseptic against her soft supple skin,
She began to smell of vodka, tonic and gin.
As she got up with a spring, Mostafa flashed a smile,
Picked up her bag and Katie had been dreaming all the while.

Asked Mostafa, in a low polite tone,
"Katie, do you mind if I call you on the phone?
Later tonight I have something to say,
You may want to hear poetry crafted my way."
Katie didn't say a lot, like her usual,
But she grinned, as she put on a smile gradual.

Later that night, when Mum was asleep,
Mostafa walked inside, as he started to peep,
Took the phone off the hook for a while,
And did his job for the night, wearing a gleeful smile.
Katie and Mostafa are now a couple,
They pedal together on Sundays to the Chapel.

The little boy achieved what he'd wanted,
Not because of the boon, Science had to him granted,
It was his tenacity, dedication and constant obsession,
That planted inside his mind, a persuading concession.

Every time little Mostafa would mix elements in the labs,
He'd endure atleast a dozen awful scabs,
But he stopped never try; always asking what, when and why,
The spirit of Science is always encountered in true form by the one,
Dear Kids; that struggles on till a favorable outcome is won.
As I finish off in a lighthearted vein, this poem will remain for you kids to gain.