Sitting down to look at the blog, my stream of consciousness is flooded with fears of distracted drivers, medical costs, ambulance invoices and the health-care mess generally more than the specifics of poetry. I like Brandt Ayers the other day calling health care not a right, not a privilege, but a necessity…. This Roethke poem, now read and re-read in midday August, abides — at last a peaceful rumination to share today.
The Reckoning
All profits disappear: the gain
Of ease, the hoarded, secret sum;
And now grim digits of old pain
Return to litter up our home.
We hunt the cause of ruin, add,
Subtract, and put ourselves in pawn;
For all our scratching on the pad,
We cannot trace the error down.
What we are seeking is a fare
One way, a chance to be secure:
The lack that keeps us what we are,
The penny that usurps the poor.
–Theodore Roethke (1908 – 1963)