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Michael McGuire
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Belongings
The things in keep that nurse our secret souls, The props that help us act our unscripted roles, Loves and labors of definition that mock ruin's yield,
Some that bring us life; others for which we
may be killed.
A naked man may be clothed in his belongings,
A covered man exposed by his longings,
And the value not calculated by his need,
Will be figured into his graveside greed.
The early morning statutes of the days to be done,
Will end with the father's belongings; to inherit the son,
Possessed of sins and sanctities and earthly-moldings all,
We will buy and sell his own used goods within the mystic-mall.
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A wretched man my find peace in his belongings, A contented man may find pain in his longings, And the happiness beyond the gauge of his actions,
Will be summed in his unknowable satisfactions.
You must command your destiny or accept your fate,
You will dance to the disappointing coda of your wait,
Leaving behind a few humble tokens of your time,
Remembered only in one of eternity's rhyme.
A man's soul cannot be saved by his belongings, A man's body never healed in his longings,
He can only want the things he hasn't got,
And he will have only to become a have-not.
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