Terminal Phase
Exhausted from a life of mostly work,
I tried escaping as a conscious cloud,
but Labor God attacked me with his dirk
and said my change was not to be allowed.
So, down I fell as drops of weary rain
collecting in a giant plastic cup.
I’d hoped to rest but heard that mad refrain:
“It’s time to work. It’s time for getting up.”
Again, I’m feeling heavy, stiff, condensed,
and doomed to always trudging through this state,
but market spirits seem to get incensed
when I dissolve or else evaporate.
Although I’d love to lie around and laze,
I’m trapped inside this always-working phase.
Paul Burgess
If you have any thoughts about this
poem, Paul
Burgess would like to hear them.
