The Accountant’s Complaint

I see no profit in rhyme. There is
no reason to write about a sunset
that is hours spent, or dishes
soaking to thoughts on walking a
road between love and next week’s
rent. We need a bottom line, a
way to manufacture profit, if
even just from words, that poor
man’s investment in the fable
of society. We have to leverage
words into a monetary return, not
emotions concerning spring and
concrete, nor how a door will
open and close. When we sleep
we dream, but we do not sleep
on dreams, nor on the ethereal
silk spun by poets – words constructed
like card houses – for a moment
trapped in the amber of experience.
Nor is a pleasant turn of phrase tax
deductible – no, not even as a
charitable donation to the greater
happiness of the working man
drinking beer at his neighbourhood
pub. Show me a purpose to which
I can apply a mathematical formula,
from which I can slash expenses
and create cost efficiencies –
show me the grounded logic and
balance sheet of your days
organized into the tax year.