ENOUGH
You can see the question coming dressed in naked innocence
across pastoral meadows hemmed in pine,
or spot a calculator’s ambush reflecting in the distance
to multiply and weigh your bottom line
by the head or by the acre like a bank account in town
where lifeless numbers gather in a fog –
an empty string of zeros marking time upon this ground
like punchers in a picture catalog.
It’s enough for twenty bulls to keep us busy fixing fences,
enough to buck two hundred tons of hay,
enough to make us laugh at the crassest incidences,
and enough to get religion every day.
The answer doesn’t measure much until you sell it all,
repay the loans and mortgages for the chore
of living with what the weather left, living with the call
to keep improving what you’ve done before.
More than likely, I'll edit this rhymer online.
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