The Ride

The Ride

(A Poem for a Cured Workaholic)

He’s been on the ride

Fifteen years day and night,

From the mornings in the market keep

To the evenings at the garbage heap.

He does the books and pays the taxes,

Takes not a day off, nay he never relaxes.

He leaves nothing undone, nay not a lick,

Nor pities himself when he’s exhausted or sick.

His work ethic is fine, but his heart is not.

He’s been going through the moves like a rusty robot.

Life soars by in the flutter of a butterfly’s wing,

So his spirit wants the chance to dance and to sing.

Now he has to dismount this head-spinning carousel,

And take stock of himself and his life as well.

He longs to be with family, friends and the like,

But this ride has him zooming down hell’s turnpike.

It’s time that he needs, lest at night come the Thief

To hasten him away before he has breathed

As a free man the verdant pastures of home

And the beckoning breeze of wherever he may roam:

A sojourn in Greece on its dioptase shore,

A climb in Alba* on its lavender mounts,

A stroll in “Peter”* amid lilacs and White Nights,

And through Acadia’s forests a primeval hike.

So the ride must be done, the piper’s game won.

Tomorrow lies fast within his resolute grasp,

And the fifteen years gone during which he has shown

What a fine, daring rider he has been.

*Alba is another name for Scotland, and “Peter” is the Russian nickname for St. Petersburg.