Work Horse

I own you because I have to.
I am not self-sufficient.

When I tried to be poor, I was thrown gold;
When I kept the gold, I was called a wastrel;
When I gave it back, I was shunned for my ingratitude.
And you tried to please me, but I will never be pleased.

We are simpatico; We both know futility.

We made the land work, but neglected the niceties.
Those who have done the reverse dislike us.

We dislike ourselves for the work seems like grief.
And what is work anyway but a turgid mirror
whose revelations quiver in recalculation:

We are something today; we are nothing today.
We are something today; we are nothing tomorrow.