Every April I find that the process of taxation
inhibits my ability to practice relaxation.
Detrimental to my leisure, it plagues my meditation.
The only way I get to sleep is helped by medication.
As scraps of paper flutter down from where they’re stacked in piles,
my friends all note I’m lacking in my usual jokes and smiles.
I’m sorting, adding, searching, piling, muttering and raving,
trying to discover all the receipts I’ve been saving.
It is my c.p.a. who has the easiest task of all
fitting figures into slots, and then he has the gall
to charge at least two hundred bucks for plugging in my numbers,
adding one more bill to disrupt my former slumbers.
It’s true that April floods the world with gentle springtime showers
that mark the end of winter and enable our May flowers.
Thus, others wax poetic dreaming of the April rain,
while I find it too quickly comes around again.
I was ill last night and went to bed early, thus I’m up about 5 hours early as well and the only two prompt words posted are “detrimental” and “relaxation.” Don’t know why this poem floated to the surface four months early, but it was the poem that wanted to be written between the hours of 3:30 and 4:20 a.m. And so, back to sleep, I hope.