Taskmaster

Things don't go well. I ignore
My obligations, I give myself over
To wanton speculations and receive
Nothing but receipts. It is cold
And I, I am weak: I get tired or bored
Or anxious. Most of all I cannot
Work. Why work?

Push off duty to the next tomorrow.
(Let's just hope it doesn't push us back.)

What if I were resolute? The wise
Sit down to contemplation; they keep themselves warm
In the winter, they find shelter from the sun
In the midst of its heat. The wise man
Aims at his purpose and hits it; he does not
Waver, he knows the planets
And their constellations. "The world
Wanders on its course."

I am not wise. I orient myself by means of space
And not by time -- not by the limitless depth of time,
Nor by reference to the boundaries
Of my time -- I squander time -- I live my life
As prodigal and profligate.

Life is an hourglass. Life is the progress of the sun.
The sun itself is profligate; its nature
Generally dispersed, its business is tired
And hungry. At least there is necessity,
At least these fluctuations bound
Between their boundaries, at least the wages of sin respect
The law of supply and demand. So let my energy seep,
Let me gather and disperse, let me struggle against my nature
With my nature and between my nature. To be is not to be
The things one ought to be --
If everything that ought to be should be,
Then wherein would it differ from what is?
That 'ought' implies 'can' and 'can' implies 'might not' is enough
For aims and purposes -- when they hit and when they fail.