It never stops. As long as I’m alive,
I think there will be labors tossed my way,
from challenges that power me to strive
or sob, to complications that dismay.
No sooner do I X things off my list
than some recur and others rise to twist
my wish to have work done, to relegate
myself to laze with nothing on my plate.
Apparently as long as I exist
there will be work, repeating or acute.
From daily chores to ills that constitute
a crisis, calls to toil will persist.
The best that I can do, absent delay,
is maybe clear the balance of today.