Posterity
My father took all of
my dreams upon
birth and
stored them in and IRA
account,
so some day maybe my children
will have them,
inflation and interest aside.
The hook-nosed
banker holds a key inside
his kerchief pocket,
when I slit his
sleeping throat a
little blood got on it,
making a funny sound inside
the twice bolted keyhole,
I took out what was mine
asking my dead father’s
forgiveness and forgiving
his ill favor,
my children would adapt or
die.
#321
