Anthony

My father’s right-hand man

Decades did not change humility

Civility learned a lesson from him

Who knew not to express own beliefs

Who knew not to profess superiority

Of education, attitude, and future

But sat, year in year out

Devising his own way to count

Money gushed like open dam daily

Wealth he counted, no salivation

Sponge in a tub of water served him

Money dried his fingers crisp

Caused phalanges to hurt

Counting all that money with spittle

Coming by way of tongue-slicked fingers

He counted all that money

Disseminated parts of fractions

Carried all instructions humbly

Invented service before it spread

Distance polarized our relationship

Never got a chance to declare openly

Bottomless gratitude cherished

Thank you for decades of service

Humble, easy going, respectful

I hope respect returned itself to him fully

Thank you so much for tolerating

Nine children and uncountable relatives 

--My dream has loved paper so much for so long because it gave influence to the parched voice of a fashionista poet. Finding this outlet, that voice is now replete with expressive sound.