By: Terry Brix

Free womb rent from my mother—Val,
genetic gift from my father—Art.
Borrowed those passion-interlocked,
semen-egg-woven DNA helixes
never to give them back, only
half-back to my wife mate in turn.

Borrowed money from the banks,
three plates full of plastic credit cards
heaped with sagging double digit interest.
Had houses so big they had their own zip codes.
Middle aged, still no windfall millions unless
recycled credit cards have become heirlooms.

Shareholder equity, preferred stock, savings,
even the best ideas need a cash lifeline.
Sold projects raised monies on four continents.
Money earning started on the high tech
lift-off. Have lured nature to mumble coded
truth. Borrowed her secrets but have never paid.

Lived with you, loved you, even had
long-term-with-an-option-to-die-with-you.
Your womb borrowed by me and the next
generation. Homes, cars, foreign educational
excursions. Days spent, months misplaced,
years lost. All mortgaged with all that time.

My whole life seemed borrowed
until I added up what I got, the costs,
what I have paid & the love taken,
given. Ying & yang about even.
My soul—paid for. Out of hock at fifty.