the tax lady

my tax lady, Betty B.
likes to joke
around and say things like
I hope they don't
throw us in jail this year.
I laugh with clenched teeth,
having heard the joke
for twenty years now.
a calico cat is lying on the counter,
fat with kittens,
another is between my ankles,
rubbing it's arched
back, purring, pawing
at my shoelaces.
the place
smells of cat litter
and lysol.
there's a pot of folger's
brewing, a tower of white
paper cups beside it.
stirrers and sugar,
powdered cream. there's
a box of donuts on
the radiator. an empty water
cooler sits in the corner
with phone books on top of it.
the shades are down,
and the cubicles
are duct taped together
while tax preparers hunch
over calculators, smoking
cigarettes.
there's an old
water stain in the ceiling
from hurricane Hester.
you didn't get married again,
did you she asks,
looking over your books,
your receipts and paperwork.
nah, not this year, I tell
her. okay, she says, so I
assume that there are no
new dependents. not that I
know of I tell her.
it's all there, I say, pointing
at my year's worth of
paper. okay, she says.
see you in two weeks.
the cowbell over the door
clangs as I leave.