And it was at that age... Mr. Taxman arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
he came from, but he threatened he'll find me
come hell or high water.
I don't know how or when,
no his were not invoices, they weren't easy
words, nor silence,
but from my workplace I was summoned,
from my substandard worksite
owned by millionaire
who can afford,
there I worked below minimum wage
and he taxed me.
My pocket didn't know what to say, its mouth
agape and without
my wallet bound,
yet hope stirred in my soul,
unfolding forgotten wings,
and I resigned and walked away,
and signed the dotted line
for employment overseas.
of one who knows something,
and soon airborne I saw
blinding beach zones,
for an ESL teacher
East, with untaxed Riyals and Dollars.
Then I, small but oh-so-hopeful being,
high on grandiose
got a call; it was
Mr. Taxman telling me the part
of worldwide income,"
and my heart broke, lost in the wind.
by Karlo Sevilla
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With poems featured in stateside publications, Karlo Sevilla concludes that literary magazines in the USA are more welcoming than the USCIS (Citizenship and Immigration Services). From his residence in Quezon City, Philippines, he badgers magazine editors for a US visa recommendation letter and airplane tickets to be mailed along with his free contributor copies.