The Accountant

The hours tick for those who count time. The accountant gathers coin and accolades, robustly but modestly. His profession requires the precision of a blunt minded man, no curve and twist. And although his view is straight, his behavior upright and courteous, his walk is forward bent, apelike, avoiding the lines in the pavement, like the winging bat’s zig or the sidewinding cat’s zag, pursued by its predator. He knows what counts, what is common sensibly real and true, big with principle and beaten bullying fear, angry that the earth and its people take. “Give me mine, what’s my due,” he says, his selfish possessing, his devouring control, his treasuring sweets. His anger sparks in punishing heat, hollering at the rag tag here, pitching a glare at the ingrate there, yet he is shy and unassuming, a contrast of black and white, the paint of his world. But what tenderness of heart and gentle hand, huge and rough and soft. The caress of time spent quietly in arms, legs entwined, palms resting in scoop of neck and back, gentle sleep and whispers press colors deep for him and me. His brutal views and mad cries hushed, he is love simple and complete.

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