Beetlebung and Kettlehole--April Poems

IRS

Like an Olympian god, you lord over
my purse, but chicken-hearted to the core,
you stall in seizing fly-by-nights
and Ponzi’s of the world.
Those who have a say quiver with fear
to look into you, and I’m too scared
to look out of you, after
I’ve been to your strip club twice
where threats--clinical and somber--
beat like drums, as if I’m not
taxed enough by my own expectations.
Yet, “I’ve grown accustomed
to your looks,” not in a sing-song way
but akin to pain or pitiless allergies.
What if the monster that lurks in me
swallows you whole, or what if
I just flattened your face?
Would you dare call my name?