find out it’s someprocessing delay.
Then wait for Raymond to say he's looking into it.
Or…
I bite the inside of my cheek,
turning in my chair, from side to side,
then open another tab
and log into my personal bank account.
My balance glares back.
There's more than enough to fix this.
I could end this in seconds,
wire the full amount,
have Eli and the band paid before Raymond even gets his key in the door.
It could be illegal?—
I don't know, I'm not a lawyer.
All I know is,
wiring money from my account to cover corporate payroll is a gray area—the messy, shady shade where lawsuits fester.
I close my eyes,
asking the ceiling, the silence, the ghosts.
“Help me out here, Dad. If you’ve got somethin' to say, now’s the fuckin’ time. ‘Cause I’m knee-deep in a fire, and I got no fuckin’ clue what I’m doin’. This is your shit. Not mine.”
In my mind, he's leaning back in his chair,
cigarette drooping
from the crook of his mouth,
ash hanging off his cigarette, watching me,
waiting to drop some advice that’ll burn long after he's dead.
It’s the same look he’d always give me
right before he sat up,
rolled his chair closer,
hunched over his desk,
elbows on the wood,
yanking the cigarette from his mouth,
