Tax

Cut a well-meaning hole in my bucket
and choose where the water drains

irrigating an already luscious field
when the droplets could fall on barren earth

less promising, less pretty
but just as deserving.

Leech

each syllable a note
some flat, some unbearably high-pitched
but voiced all the same
by the same unwieldy madam
who will never let you forget her name

sometimes written in blood
as the nights begin to fade
disecting her feelings
slashing the doubt
of an quarter century tirade

launched into without feeling
heaven forbid she lets you in
because when she does
there’s no escape
and the walls are oh so thin.