Calculations (Summer)

this time-telling on restaurant
napkins--how old was he
when? and how old was she
when? the ink spreading, like

blood, across the white while
the waiter replenishes the glasses
of water, the beading of the
condensation making an ever-

changing map of wetness tamped
by a napkin, the waiter,
pad and pen at the ready
whiteaproned, distracted by a

noise of traffic between the tax
office and the funeral home
and here we are--caught between
death and taxes on this fine

Summer morning, new-born and
already promising the hotness of the
afternoon, scorching our soles, our
souls, as we walk back to the

car, calculating always, the
numbers tottering over, wondering
whether
they will ever add up