Death and Taxes

The housewives laugh at what they can’t avoid: In single file, buckling one by one Under the weight of the late summer sun, They drop their bags, they twitch, and are destroyed. He hears a voice (there is a bust of Freud Carved on the mountainside). He tucks the gun Under his rented beard and starts to run. (“The housewives laugh at what they can’t avoid.”) Like She-bears fettered to a rusted moon They crawl across the parking lot and shed Tearblood. The office park is closing soon. Night falls. The neighborhood buries its dead And changes channels—Zap! Ah, the purity Of death and taxes and Social Security.