The poet ate soup, and stared at the walls. She cooked sometimes, but the mathematician cooked more often. He was better at it. She mended her clothes that had gotten battered in the journey -- and then mended some of his, while she was at it. She thought about math, and when she couldn't think about math any more, she thought about poetry.
The mathematician mostly ignored her -- he was busy writing new math on the walls. But occasionally he would give her a truth to ponder, such as:
The mapping class group of a surface is automatic.
The only bounded entire functions are constant.
There are infinitely many prime numbers.
The poet considered these for a long time, but they didn't seem to be doing her much good.