By Mark Defoe
I make the drive, walk the corporate walk,
To do what I must and give what I got.
I turn the chrome knob and I fill my slot.
I talk and I joke, a regular guy
I input and output and rarely ask why.
It's pasta and wine at home in my flat.
It's voice mail and e-mail, then feed the stray cat.
Sometimes I go out and chat up the girls.
Some want to tango, some manage a smile.
Some come home and have safe sex for a while.
My sweet IRA, my 401-k,
Let me buy tickets to games, to a play—
I go with the gang and don't get involved.
I fly to St. Croix and stare at the sea.
I travel first class. No day-tripper me.
My stocks are diverse to ride out the storm.
I buy what is solid, hew to the norm.
My portfolio teaches how I should vote.
I'm cautious in style, suspicious of trend.
When weather turns foul I always come in.
This is my choice, my new BoBo life.
A two-career marriage, the tension, the strife—
It didn't last long. We parted as pals.
She got the condo. I got the car.
She's a savvy, cool chick. She'll go really far.
My folks live upstate, where I misspent my youth.
They're tight with their money and long in the tooth.
When I visit it's hard with so little to say.
They miss me, they claim. They worry. They pray.
But they seem relieved when I drive away.