All day's been a cut above even keel.
The laundry bag broke, the shoe's
cheap heel stuck in the pavement's
backbreaker, and the news made its awful
jaw-talk but, somehow, I'm upright.
Rolling the big stone up the hill.
God forgive the panting persistence
of life's pull. Sea storms of the ancient
punishing paranoia of failure and the crafty
quicksand of task-to-task. But, I am aiming
to be effective here. I trust the day's dare of,
Finish me, so at the end I will stand at the near top
of the dusking hill, my hand on your chest,
just a deserved pause, before the inevitable
descent. I know it will go on like this.
Sometimes, you'll be the boulder,
and I'll be that mythic-pusher.
Sometimes, I'll be the stubborn-ist stone,
pleading for a freefall before the end.
And, so what? Camus said, One must imagine
Sisyphus happy. And I am.
As long as you are my eternal work,
my unending up and down,
my awesome devotion.