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
and almost as well.
The gods inevitably conk out
when it comes to something dull, you know,
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
just lay down to 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?