Tax Day Cometh

Thank God it's over,
that day near April 15
when visions of dollars
rotting in foxholes
bubble between my ears.

Spineless, I have placed
my checks in the mail,
my head in the sand
and followed the crowd
"marching as to war."

To the partiers of
coffee and tea,
I'll take mine
with sugar, please.


"Shake it out," says Virginia.  "Let's sing."

"Sorry," I say, worn out.  "Maybe tomorrow."