Splitting Heirs |
| by Alastair Adamson |
The phone rings.
My sleep encrusted eyes open...
The tepid old room doesn't focus...
Now where did I put my glasses?
Oh, yes.
The phone rings.
Slowly I slide my legs to the floor,
Slipping bunioned, splayed feet in slippers,
Pulling on my tattered house-coat.
My fingers don't like to work
This early in the afternoon.
The knot is clumsy, my knuckles swollen.
The phone rings.
I'm coming, I'm coming,
Just let these old bones get settled.
I'm moving just as fast as I can.
Years of back-breaking labor have broken me,
All save my will to keep breathing.
Hello...speaking
No I ain't gots no money fo you.
Social Security ain't what it used to be,
Not with Poppa twelve years dead.
No, I ain't ready to join with him yet.
Hello?
Well, I'll swan.
I'd never listen if someone else said it,
But my children are worthless, no respect,
Draggin my old bones outta bed
Just to see if they're in my will.
Plain ungrateful after all I've been
Through for them,
All I've done for them.
Lawd, I'm so tired.
Bring soon Thy Sweet Chariot
And I'll cross with You over that
Great Divide.
Heh heh, won't those chillin be surprised:
I've done dismissed the accountants, bankers,
And lawyers, and donated all my money
To Amnesty International,
All two million, three hundred and nineteen thousand,
Forty-three dollars and eighteen cents.
Oh, yes,
Won't they be surprised.
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(c) 1999 Alastair Adamson Please respect the rights of the author and Passions in Poetry. If you would like to use this poem on your own web page, please contact the Author. Thank you.
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