IImagine an accountant in a Bogart movie.
He wears a visor and plastic writing guards over his cuffs.
He could be a black jack dealer in a casino, but he's not.
He's poring over piles of ledgers
under the glare of a green dome banker's lamp,
trying to reconcile the books.
The numbers, the numbers are swimming in the air,
diving out of the shadows in the room
into the bright light beneath the lamp,
as if they were children jumping off a tall outcropping
into a swimming hole.
They come and go as they please,
torturing the accountant with their carefree independence.

He's trying to get them to line up,
to make the boss' business look legit
or it's concrete galoshes for him.
Bogie walks into the office to retrieve a package and says,
"Burning the midnight oil, Bernie?"
Bernie's afraid their boss has an appointment for him 
at the bottom of the river.
He thinks, "Maybe Bogie could tell my wife and kids why ....",
but just says,
"Yeah, yeah.  Burning the midnight oil."
Bogie leaves.  
Bernie works through the night,
tries to order the numbers by coding them,
but remembers how he loved the old swimming hole,
how he could jump or not jump,
and how the chaos of freedom was its own truth.



			Brandywine
			11/24/98