A Personal Account
by Maryann CorbettI think of it—the money I’ve put away—
as sitting primly, waiting to be called on,
wearing a plaid jumper and saddle shoes
and bobby socks. It keeps its ankles crossed.
I know it’s not like that. I’m not naïve.
The money doesn’t sit. It’s lent. It does things,
I don’t know what. Lately it’s out of touch.
We’ve never talked about its private life.
So if my money’s been out partying
in dives, in sleazy places I wouldn’t approve of,
draped on the arm of an oily, fat-ass banker
and dressed like a tramp, with too much make-up on,
don’t tell me. Please. I do not want to know.
It can come home, and all will be forgiven.