"The Reckoning"
by Theodore Roethke
All profits disappear: the gain
Of ease, the hoarded, secret sum;
And now grim digits of old pain
We hunt the cause of ruin, add,
Subtract, and put ourselves in pawn;
For all our scratching on the pad,
We cannot trace the error down.
What we are seeking is a fare
One way, a chance to be secure:
The lack that keeps us what we are,
