The all-sustaining, all-devouring Job
Wears the robes of God, to render Him
More visible, if no less inscrutable
And just as confusing as to whether it’s
What you do or who you are that adds value,
Or how your soulless task could make life more holy,
Or why if you’re so unique do you find yourself
In a heartbeat on the street.
The chickens and perimeters can watch themselves, it
seems,
And money compounds on trees without being told how much
It matters. This thing at the end, the product you've grown numb to,
Is dust compared to your experience in making it;
The lessons that you took are the objective truth
To the bottom line end of the rope’s illusion.
