Two Poems

For Ben

Knocked from your pedestal by the truth
we are no longer strangers
your children
like mine
are a gift to this family
without blood as a binding agent
they are here by grace
and power
and cannot be bullied by your family name.


Banker’s Hours

He wants to fire me because I don’t share his love of numbers
but how can I love that which is like dust;
colorless and ubiquitous?
Forcing into the soft palm of my hand those sharp edges
of sevens, fours and ones
he grins the way insiders do
and I smile with crazy 8 eyes
and force my lips into a big zero.


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