Atlas Pooped

Atlas Pooped


Now the seasons have circled

and we do what we have done forever.

Like Atlas we crawl away

on our hands and knees

from the job we took

thinking we would hold it ‘til the heavens collapsed

and all the gods retired,

thinking, well, someone else, can do it

almost as well.

The gods inevitably conk out

when it comes to something dull,

leaving men in their unenviable place.

After Valhalla burned

did they man the hoses?

Didn’t they rather, just walk away

from it all, hit the golf course

or just lay down and take a snooze?

And don’t we, if we can, do just the same?

Either run like hell, or do a job that’s just second rate?

Like reproduce Goya’s etchings on paper towels,

their edges blurred and generally meaningless?

More of the blind leading the blind

on that road which goes no place at all.

Imagine how long Hercules

would have stood there waiting

for that fellow to return.

He, too, would have found someone else

to ease the burden.

So who do you think, tired shoulders and all, is standing there now,

bearing the brunt of all that weight?