Eat Taxes for Dinner
Ten years of 1040s
nibbled by the tiniest
of tiny teeth like zippers
that traveled back and forth
across the top of my marital status
my earnings, my dependents, my citizenry
and found home.
My cold cabinet in the gray
garage made warm in even
the harshest of mountain winters
by pipsqueaks who purged on my worth
nested on the numbers to which I swore
wove pillows for the babies who nursed
against my exemptions.
I might write off the bottom
drawer this year, having housed
these tenants who paid no room
no board, this brood
of rodents well nourished
resting comfortably
behind the tax files
tummies stuffed
with me.
pocket poet 
Sorry those pipsqueaks caused so much trouble, but it made for a delightful poem!
LikeLike