Through the ages you’ve recorded,
dating pages, keeping track,
lining up crosses row on row,
noting plagues, deaths, and women.
You’ve performed the clerical task.
You’ve scribed while dogs barked,
merchants screamed, children shrieked,
mice scurried, and women wailed
for food, protesting they had souls,
keening at night for jackals.
You’ve done what was enjoined,
but have not understood at all.
Poor scribe swept along. Paper soul.
Pen with a will of its own,
and you both counter and board.
You’ve scratched letters, scribbler,
while priests entoned priest sound,
and you’ve stretched numbers to catch it,
round it neat to a quick penny
and prop up your godded column.
But there’s an end, Accountant.
Only remnants left, slivers
of old terrors awaiting the fire,
shriveled fears, poppy petals
desert dry, food for flames.
All those souls of bitches moaning
while the dogs of war built pyres,
all those ledgers piled so high,
and my life’s breath spent climbing
to adjust for marginality.
Loom, if you will, Colossus.
No woman will run or try to hide.
Not a one but can spot caricature
from as far away as her grave.
And the imprisoned have daily TV.
It’s time to give over your abacus,
and the long scrolls you’ve bedded in,
all those guarded golden letters
that spell out Deity, and Lord of Lords.
That could help, Accountant.
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