April 14th
dedicated to Joe O'Brien, CPA
These income forms, I think they show
I owe the IRS some dough.
And worst of all is my great fear,
my savings balance is too low.
My finance planner thinks me queer
to wait until this time of year
to figure out my math mistake,
an error I don't want to hear.
There isn't time enough to make
the funds the IRS will take.
I wail and whine and fuss and weep.
The taxman has no heart to break.
I will not get a good night's sleep
until I learn to save and keep.
I owe the IRS a heap.
I owe the IRS a heap.
by Paula Mahon
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
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Paula Mahon hails from Derry, NH, one mile from Robert Frost's farm. Her writing hobby has recently landed her in The Boston Globe and The Lyric. It also snagged her a finalist spot in the narrative poetry contest by Naugatuck River Review. Despite this, she keeps plugging away at her day job as a family physician in Manchester, NH.
When a radioactive cup of coffee spilled on a stack of ungraded student essays, English teacher Mitch Frye shambled into existence. He seethes in Mobile, Alabama.