Payback Poem by Doug Lane

I'm in the mood
to pay bills.
How much
is my mother charging
for giving life to me
plus decades of feeding, loving, laughing,
hugging, cleaning, chiding, walking, nursing,
teaching, training, kissing?
Just like her
never to tote it all up
and now she's dead,
leaving me deep in the red,
with an incalculable debt,
a crushing sense of gratitude.
Thanks a ton, Ma.

And what about all those teachers
and coaches I owe?
Sure, most were on salary,
but many had that personal touch
which left me feeling grateful and indebted,
darn 'em.
Is there a debtors' prison
for mugs like me?
They're all dead, too, of course.
And would probably
have told me
to just
pass it on,
which I did
by teaching
at starvation wages
for nearly forever.

And that's what I'd say
to my students, too.
Your money's no good here.
Or if you still feel like you owe,
pay the favor forward
to someone else,
to many others.
And if you feel
I interfered with you,
destroyed you,
soiled you,
slowed you,
owed you,
misled you,
then classify me
as what not to be,
and determine
to do better
when you teach, train, raise, love, nurture, inspire
in your turn.

And lovers, too,
whether for 15 years
or 15 minutes.
You all gave me something,
many things.
I can never repay you
or thank you
enough.
And while some would argue
I often gave better
than I got,
I've learned to write off
my losses
with a "Hi ho Silver
and away! "
"Who WAS that masked man? "
I'm embarrassed
by anyone
coming around
to show her appreciation
years after
the fact.
Well, it hasn't happened yet,
but I would be
if it did.

Didn't we both
give as good
as we got?
We gave what we could.
We held back
what we had to.
So we're all square,
right baby?
And if we're still feeling
the love,
well, that's not payback,
that's a fresh transaction
fueled by, yet owing nothing to,
past passions.