Tonight's Poet Corner: Taxes: Holiday Edition
Taxes: Holiday Edition
by Belinda Roddie
Uncle Max has had too much egg nog
again. "Every time!" his wife complains.
He's done with shredding W-2's and burying
them in fertile soil; now it's enriched by
1099's, and the tomatoes have never been
bigger or redder, the strawberries never sweeter.
He's fully two-dimensional now: Creased
like letters addressed to the North Pole,
he suspends himself like a floating origami
crane on an easy chair. All he needs
is a string to straighten out his spine
as he dangles drunkenly from the ceiling.
His magic tricks aren't as good anymore,
especially not when rum is mixed with
his "milk punch," as the beverage is apparently
also called. I hope the time he gets for tax
evasion isn't too hefty, though the IRS
sure does respect his Christmas wishes by
gifting him an affordable bail. I'll
wrap up that fragile dream of his in tissue
paper: Ribbons, but no bow. And once he gets
to snoring on my mother's couch since he's
too shitfaced to drive back home, he'll radiate
an equally flaxen glow with the star that perches
its feeble frame on top of our tree, both praying
that the shadows of responsibility will fade away.
by Belinda Roddie
Uncle Max has had too much egg nog
again. "Every time!" his wife complains.
He's done with shredding W-2's and burying
them in fertile soil; now it's enriched by
1099's, and the tomatoes have never been
bigger or redder, the strawberries never sweeter.
He's fully two-dimensional now: Creased
like letters addressed to the North Pole,
he suspends himself like a floating origami
crane on an easy chair. All he needs
is a string to straighten out his spine
as he dangles drunkenly from the ceiling.
His magic tricks aren't as good anymore,
especially not when rum is mixed with
his "milk punch," as the beverage is apparently
also called. I hope the time he gets for tax
evasion isn't too hefty, though the IRS
sure does respect his Christmas wishes by
gifting him an affordable bail. I'll
wrap up that fragile dream of his in tissue
paper: Ribbons, but no bow. And once he gets
to snoring on my mother's couch since he's
too shitfaced to drive back home, he'll radiate
an equally flaxen glow with the star that perches
its feeble frame on top of our tree, both praying
that the shadows of responsibility will fade away.
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