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The Reckoning

 All profits disappear: the gain
Of ease, the hoarded, secret sum;
And now grim digits of old pain
Return to litter up our home.
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, The penny that usurps the poor.

by Theodore Roethke
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