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Max Ernst Messes With The Accountant
It was a beige day not a gray day
nor a blue day but a beige day.
The accountant stared
at the light pea green ledger.
The red line for the balance
column seemed maroon, not red.
He summed and totalled to the
bottom of the page.
In black ink,
he entered three perfect twos.
They were the sum of the columns
that he totalled
that he had stared at all day.
His hand hesitated.
His eyes blurred.
If he but drew a one from the head of each two,
they would look like snails.
Beside them, he could put his correct
open topped fours that the firm dictated he use.
Seeing them in mirrored pairs,
fours looked like decapitated flowers.
Looping drooping nines belonged
to this garden of flowers and snails.
Sideways threes flew off his page
like butterflies.
Sunday, he had visited the art museum
with Rita who wore brown.
She always crossed her sevens
so they were never confused with ones.
None of this was a problem, really.
Resonating sixes and eights
shook like her bosom
when at the museum
she said with a great drinking sigh,
"Butterfly Collection"
I think this is his best one. Don't you?
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