is the war zone.
the tax papers stacked
in clumsy order.
the adding machine
out and plugged in.
a pot of coffee on.
sharpened pencils.
a magnifying glass
for the pesky small print.
receipts and the debris
of paper work collected
throughout the year.
insurance
and debts, fees.
spent money, money earned,
a record of all the good
and bad deeds.
slowly i sift through
the piles,
filling in numbers.
then coming to the point
where i find the box
that asks
filing separately or
married.
or single. i put
a giant check there
and write the word happily
next to that.
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