the root of all . . .

indulgence should be fleeting   

a disquiet lurks just below
the forced gaiety of indulgence,
a premonition of a bill that will come due,
and a doubt about the wherewithal of paying it,

modern America worships at the altar of consumption,
the more conspicuous the better
so the neighbor can know you’re one-up, or more, over them,

the accumulation of goods, of money,
the seeming root of what success is,
as everyone seems to nod at each other in agreement
about the pursuit of money as what life’s about,
and woe be unto anyone who realizes
what the root of all evil is and says it,
the material transcendent,

we forget the value we get when we deny ourselves
and tithe to church or state, to another who needs us,
yet we easily pour our wealth out for a lottery
in hopes to strike it rich,

even for the few who overcome the astronomical odds against one,
what is gained is ill-gotten and can be
but sand for the foundation of happiness,

I deny myself food so that I can then have cake
and the cake is never as good when I have it
as I thought it’d be when I didn’t have it,

for years I didn’t have the money
and deep hungers rooted in me,
when I spend money now, though,
guilt reminds me that indulgence has its place,
but that it should be fleeting.

by Henry H. Walker
July 17, ’12