All these years. How many years?
Ten? Eleven? That’s great. No,
I don’t have a portfolio. How great
that you could spend so much time
on vacation. White sands. I was there
just once: centuries ago. No, I’ve never
been to that Marina. I saw your pictures
in the infinity pool. That’s cool. It’s hard
to take time off; it catches up to you. I’ve
often wondered, why are all the people in
your photos, in restaurants all the time?
And everyone with a cell phone. The waiter
is a vegetable vendor? He’s putting himself
through school? I’m tempted to ask if he
will stock my mother’s pantry every Monday.
At her age, she prefers fruit and green
leafies. She texts me every few weeks
to say her cupboard’s getting bare: Send
money. Where’s that tree with bills
clipped to the leaves, which passersby
hardly notice? I’m gripped by spasms
that keep me from falling asleep at night.
And when I do, I dream of accountants
pursuing me with an abacus in each
hand. They’re dressed in grim or grey,
but the beads click like hungry teeth in day-
glo colors. You know I’ve never been good
at numbers. I used to know but have forgotten
how to reckon by them— something about ones,
tens, hundreds, thousands: expenditures
on one hand, omissions on the other.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.