Every day he sweats it out.
Each and every day he is more certain
that this will be a curtain
and there will be no callback
and he will have to walk off
into a dark corridor and then out
into a dark street
but the Work will remain behind him
and impartially have him judged.
He will be crumbled or hard of tooth
and either way will not matter much
as long as he has left enough behind
for the Work to gesture without caring
and say here, here:
this is what you were promised
and this is what is left.
Here, here: whatever that damn fool said
in a moment of clarity is true.
Here, here: he was an imperfect man
running with an open mouth, broken teeth,
sickening lust for whatever came his way
and still the Work found him
and still the Work used him
to write poems which he barely knew
were ascribed to his name, vast heaps
of them. The Work said of them
here, here: this is what you were promised
and this is what is left.
Here, here: do not listen to him
but listen to the Work which found him
and the Work which used him —
sobbing, malignant, open to lies
and treason and brief beauty
he never quite understood but jotted down
on what he called throwaway notes;
he was a mere tool and a remnant of mere tool
and knows nothing now of what he did
and still the Work found him
and still the Work used him —
a squeaking ghost about which
nothing is really known. When he goes
the Work will remain. Thank him
or toss a flower at him as he goes.
Praise him as he bows and vanishes
into the shadows. Then turn back
to what remains of him —
all you need now;
all you have ever needed, in fact…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T