Draft in the author’s style. This poem was written for Poet of Wall Street to sit beside the author’s own readings, and is waiting for the author’s review. The commentary is a working draft too.
My father was a bookkeeper with ink upon his thumb,
And he balanced every column to the very final sum.
He said a ledger tells the truth when no one's there to see,
And the numbers that you bury will come out eventually.
He found a missing dollar once at midnight on a sheet,
And he walked back to the office through the cold and empty street.
His boss said, it's a dollar, let it go, it's very small,
But my father said a dollar is the start of every fall.
So he found it in the drawer where a careless hand had hid,
And he wrote it in the ledger, just as honest people did.
Now I keep my own accounts with ink upon my thumb,
And I balance every column for the honest days to come.
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Commentary
A bookkeeper father walks back through the cold at midnight for one missing dollar, and passes his honesty to his child.
The father “balanced every column to the very final sum.” He believed “a ledger tells the truth when no one's there to see,” and that “the numbers that you bury will come out eventually.” He once found “a missing dollar” at midnight.
His boss said “let it go, it's very small,” but the father replied that “a dollar is the start of every fall.” He found it “where a careless hand had hid.” Now the child keeps accounts “with ink upon my thumb” for “the honest days to come.”