the end of the fiscal year

i was yellling
at my maid
helena
the other day.
asking her
why she hadn't
dusted the top
of the book shelves.
why hadn't she
picked up
all the loose
popcorn kernels
around the couch.
she smiled
at me and tapped
me with a duster
on my nose. you
mister are just
a frustrated
artist. you are
a man without
an island, a
city without
lights, a painter
without linseed
oil. i don't
know what any of
that means, i told
her, but i
think you're right.
what did you do in
russia before you came
here, i asked
her and she said,
i was one of the top
neurologists in
moscow, but i wasn't
making any money, so
i came here. i see.
well, the end of
the fiscal year is
coming up and if
you can make me a
pot roast for dinner
there will be a bump
up in your salary.
i will try, she said.
i will give it
my best shot my
sensitive artist.