taxes and gentlemen who lurk in the hearts of ruined women

a free verse poem (NaPoWriMo #18) Uncle Sam by Andy Warhol, ©1981. National Gallery of Art (Free-to-Use) I stare at the voucher that tells me what I owe the State.I was supposed to pay it by the 15th, but I’m ignoring it.it’ll be there. it’s low enough for me not to be concernedabout additional feels that will soon incur, so why the hell not? I’m tired of taxes and the men with split tongues telling me how helpful theyare for the community, yet my communityis a village struggling to keep food on its table, while they line their pockets withhard-earned money from workers who arebuilding early graves. anything to keep them above waterwhile watching the rest of us drown…how cunning—none of what we experiencetrickles down to them, maybe itshould. a friend of mine—who was once morethan a friend, but we hadn’t/haven’t labeled it anything because what would we name it?he loves that I’m still around.I know he always will be. there’s comfort in our bullshitand avoidance of our pain. we’re out…