Have I remembered everything I thought
I had to do? And planned to do them well?
And started doing? Or will lessons taught
by time speak forcefully enough to quell
the nag that’s ridden me since childhood,
and override the willful call to work?
Anxiety has never done me good;
to nowhere is a journey for a jerk.

A carrot on a stick may coax a mule
to pull a load the way a driver aims,
and some may ring a bell and make dogs drool,
but I won’t be a player in those games.
I juggle 13 balls into the air
but most of them could drop, for all I care.