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Collection Agents A dad by any name other than his Surely would claim a rightful place in his family, No matter that he no longer holds sway Physically and emotionally. Only in matters of finance Do his two children still prevail upon him To make good on the old unspoken obligations That, while married to their mother, He vowed to honor and devotedly obey, In sickness and in health, wealth, And even during the poverty they came to know, Once his wife assumed her true calling, That age-old, if ignoble, distaff profession:
Adultery, sexual apostasy so flagrant, Their neighbors packaged her activities as a board game They successfully marketed for three years, Before its trendiness became yesterday's fresh fish Wrapped in today's newspapers Tomorrow's garbage collectors compacted in their trucks And hauled to the dump. Now, living alone, In a motel located close to his office, He can't even believe his kids still bother to call, Nickel-diming him, as they do, Like collection agents dunning him, daily, For bills the divorce court ordered him to pay.
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