Doing Taxes in the Month that is a VERB

Monday Tax Day

I woke up with a mourning dove or morning dove, let’s go with the latter, cooing outside my back bedroom window and I began my February poem. Instead of the trash cans and metal crunch sounds outside my house I was gifted with birds in downtown Manhattan. And for me, steeped in a deep funk, it brought on the knowledge that my final job application, lurking in the realm of hope, has been rejected. And again in winter I find myself jobless.

I am not without work. I work all the time: I write and write and I volunteer and help friends. I cook and knit and garden and read and occasionally shake my body to wake up and be strong. But I have no remuneration and it terrifies me.

I am, my family is, resilient and for now we can live on the consulting work my husband brings in. The fields of work seem to be a shrinking, drying up and his makes me so anxious that I: eat, sleep or pick my fingers into raw stubs. No good comes of it.

Alas no new poetry was attempted today and I barely moved.


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