Annual Appointment with My Accountant
Another night, another year. At dawn
The clock exploded in my ear. I woke
And staggered to the train. The mist stretched on
The Hudson like a dragon oozing smoke.
The train crept down the river’s edge. The seat
Was smudged, the windows smudged, with flecks of spit
And specks of lung exhaled in petite
Amounts by folks who board this train and sit
For hours every goddamn working day.
And I? I rode the train to see the guy
Who does my taxes. Now, at some café,
I order wine and ogle passersby.
Yes – every “down” is followed by an “up.”
A glass of wine. A brimming coffee cup.
– Bruce Ballard
Hoping the tax man was gentle in his delivery of his calculations!
Bruce, I must say, you’ve bumped it up a notch with this one.
Your other sonnets were fun and valiant, but this one is a real mind trip. At least to me.
Thank you.