Monday, April 16, 2018

April 16, 2018





To a Dependent

Wife, what is thy date of birth?
I must inscribe it on this form.
If thou dost coverage desire, then first
Tell me before I leave for work.

Say not that I forgot when thou wast born.
Put down that book thou wast about to throw.
A forgotten birthday is nothing to mourn,
While insurance lets us to the doctor go.

Thou art my dependent on this claim,
For "in sickness and in health" was our vow,
And I depend on thee who shares my name,
Though I have also forgotten our anniversary now.

Dates hold no value in the mind of man
When he shows his worth with dental plan.

by Mitch Frye
in volume 6 issue1

------------

Taxation
with a nod to Pablo Neruda

And it was at that age... Mr. Taxman arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
he came from, but he threatened he'll find me
come hell or high water.
I don't know how or when,
no his were not invoices, they weren't easy
words, nor silence,
but from my workplace I was summoned,
from my substandard worksite
owned by millionaire
tax evaders
who can afford,
there I worked below minimum wage
and he taxed me.

My pocket didn't know what to say, its mouth
agape and without
a dime,
my wallet bound,
yet hope stirred in my soul,
unfolding forgotten wings,
and I resigned and walked away,
secured
my passport,
and signed the dotted line
for employment overseas.
Makes sense,
sheer wisdom
of one who knows something,
and soon airborne I saw
the heavens
unfastened,

opportunity opened,
cash windfall,
blinding beach zones,
for an ESL teacher
in Middle
East, with untaxed Riyals and Dollars.

Then I, small but oh-so-hopeful being,
high on grandiose
visions,
got a call; it was
Mr. Taxman telling me the part
on "taxation
of worldwide income,"
and my heart broke, lost in the wind.

by Karlo Sevilla
in volume 6 issue1


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