POETRY

Every year at tax time
we necessarily fight.
"Why is this paper
missing from its file?"

"If you did the filing
you'd know yourself!"
The room, the bed is covered
with sheets numbered,

while outside, spring's cloud
smells of the ocean
and the birds raucously sing
laughing at us hard.

Money, a year's worth
runs through our head
like a stern aunt
barely remembered.

Convalescent, this ritual bath
after a long period
of wastes and debt,
plays its jester's part.

jam09