It’s true, my reckless speculation
led to the collapse of
my father’s bank. But it’s not as if
he did not know I was
doing it or that he didn’t give
me some of his money
to secretly invest so he did
not pay taxes on it.
And it’s also true that I lived in
a penthouse in Buenos
Aires while that Schultz fellow served time
for my crimes. And yet, guilt
has a way of compounding interest
more ruthlessly than my
father ever dreamed of. Which is how
I found myself leaping
in front of an express train, to end
a misery that I’d
not even noticed had eroded
my desire to live.