I am ink-deep in my bookkeeper, he
stands at my office door, accounts in hand
but the numbers will never compute
nor revenue cover the expense
of coveting his innocent blue eyes.
The spread of my imagination
undresses him here on the desk, a bed
of indecipherable desire to let go,
buttocks on wood. What would happen next?
My staff in outer rooms rifling through papers
would be less surprised to see a whale walk
in, his scissor teeth chewing through
all of our transparencies and behind him
a Souza of secretaries waving their dictations
of oughts, musts and shoulds.
As for me, D-based, I say, spread the sheets,
turn the tables, rebel, excel, paradox.
I won’t get caught while the janitor mows
the short hairs on the lawn, he will not see
me covered with this extravagant lust
for a bookkeeper whose lack
of experience will cause us all certain
trouble. But I am set to ring like
an old cash register. What does it matter
that it doesn’t tally? In this hour
of fire, I will hold on to the edge
of the desk, waiting for a knock at the door,
the firm grasp of my auditor.
Published in Whistling Girls and Cackling Hens, 2003 Pudding House Press chapbook series