I suggest to you, as beneficiary of…
Oh, wait. Those God-damned kids
Next-door are out and hooting, as
They’re wont to do, like monkeys
In a jungle somewhere. I can’t think.
I’ll try to help you. Mostly, though,
I hate my job. The briefs, the pleas,
The probate rulings, all the stacks
Of dusty papers, signifying, Jesus,
Nothing. Your late husband was
A crook. If it was up to me, and I have
Tried to make it mostly so, I’d give
You an okay allowance. Then I’d
Parcel out the loot he stole from
Almost everyone to homeless
Shelters and the people who
Need help to feed their kids,
And, afterward, I’d take my savings,
Buy a boat, and sail off to an atoll
On the Coral Sea. From there,
Relieved of children’s screaming,
I would sit and watch the waves,
And try to salvage me.