corner
of the cape cod office,
to the cubicle where my tax lady,
Betty, does my taxes.
she shoos a cat off of her
desk,
and puts her tuna fish
sandwich into
a drawer.
there's a dollop of mayo
on her chin,
which i inform her off
by pointing at my
on chin.
she wipes it off
with a W-2 form.
so, i ask her, what's the deal
here, why
do i have to pay fifteen grand
to the IRS
again?
what's your name?
she says,
scratching the scalp
beneath her lopsided wig,
then lets out a loud laugh.
just teasing, she says.
a little tax humor.
well, about that money you owe
to the feds.
your broker sold some of your
stocks last year, and so
you took a big hit on that end.
you made a big profit.
but truthfully,
you're making too
much money.
you either need to stop
working altogether,
or get married again, and lose
some money through alimony
or by another
gold digging wife.
but i have to tell you, you're
in pretty good shape
overall.
you have enough money to last
you the rest of your life,
as long as you
don't buy anything, that is.
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