Six O’clock (For JSW)

The excuses have all been recited -
Ev’n the gloam does not descend but attend,
A squire biding time until beknighted -
And so each feint rings false, but we pretend
(As we have always done, and yet will do)
That these barren seconds may yet bear fruit.
But what the dusk-deep’ned sky reveals is true:
That is, “production” is a fool’s pursuit.
So wring your hands over work unassigned
If you must, bask in an ever more fraught
Sense of self. Or don’t, for, you know, the mind
Is an awful thing to waste: on this: for naught.
Oh, but do not ask for whom the bell tolls;
For, come six, you know where the Big Boss strolls.

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