by Bruce Lader
Wait Till You’re Twenty-One
All day down in the salt mine basement
his clients visit, lodge brothers
he embraces with the gift of gab,
as if it’s been ages since the nights
they kibitzed pinochle, gin rummy,
and bridge. He loves them more than me,
his number-one trophy. At last,
they’ve gone, but he’s busy together
with unending work and classical music
as friends. He needs the debit
of this no-account, disrespectful teen
like mortgage payments. He swishes
a glass of Lipton, smokes another Camel,
plots the maps of their fiscal lives,
saving them taxes. He brags the balance
is a happy medium like Mendelssohn’s
Italian Symphony playing. It vexes him
that I sulk so much, when he’s providing
the time to myself he didn’t have.
From:
March Street Press, 2005
Copyright ©:
Bruce Lader
Last updated September 16, 2011