|
A Personal Accountby 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.
|
||
|
|
|||
Maryann Corbett’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Measure, The Lyric, Alabama Literary Review, The Barefoot Muse, First Things, Mezzo Cammin, The Raintown Review and other journals in print and online. She is a recent Pushcart nominee and serves as a moderator on the Eratosphere online poetry forum. She lives in St. Paul, Minnesota, and works as a legal-writing adviser, editor, and indexer for the Minnesota Legislature.