Accounting

He can figure percentages in a flash:

exact, errorless, without a calculator.

I can too, without wanting, 

without trying.

One afternoon in late September

showing my tax return 

my father’s old math-mind-magic returns;

he leans toward the numbers.

Some men lean together

in beer-stained armchairs toward games

on Sunday afternoons, the TV commentators

doing the talking, others against rifles 

in drafty deer blinds.  At times we had leaned

those ways, but accounting is closer 

to home.  He spots a charitable donation 

I haven’t claimed.  Talking taxes

is not what I wanted as a young man.  

I pushed him to lean 

as the winds of my requests shifted.  

He pushed back.  I moved away

not calling to endure

gaps of silence on the phone

until I found my way as he found

when, leaving his father’s farm,

he opened his accounting firm.

Anger drained, I met him where he was

and now, taking a break from Schedule A

we walk outside on a brilliant New Mexico day,

admiring over a thousand tomatoes in my garden.

You’ve got a green thumb

like my father had, he says with a bounce.

We stand together in silence

watching fruit ripening.

My wife joins us.

Rubbing her belly, I feel the boy inside

kick toward my hand or, I wonder, is he pushing 

and I think I understand:  my father pushed

like his father pushed

and my son will push, and I 

pray before the final accounting

we will lean together.