Poem

ReceiptMy dad used to always show me the receipts;Birthday gifts, hotel and restaurant bills.He liked to show how much he ’d spentAs if the rows and columns of numbers meantAll the important things could be counted.But numbers don't mean much when you ’re nine or ten.It takes a while to understand how much things cost.You just know that something is given and something is owed,That all things have a priceAnd payment is due even when the cherished things are lost.One time I needed envelopes last minuteFor the Valentine ’s Day party at school.We stopped at a drugstore but all they had Left was a giant box of business envelopes.There were way too manyAnd they were way too bigFor my bundle of little pink and red cards.It all seemed like such an expensive waste.(Mom ran out later and got the proper kind.)When he dropped me off at homeI clutched the crumpled receipt and weptLike Daisy Buchanan rifling throughGatsby ’s closetful of beautiful shirts.Another time, just before the big splitI slid my only twenty dollar bill under his pillowFolded up in a note where I ’d writtenSilly things likeI'm so sorry daddy andplease don't leave.But he never said anything about it.Maybe mom saw it first and threw it away in anger;Who knows?I never got my money backAnd I forgot to ask for a receipt.5/6/20

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - May 5, 2020 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs