Work

I live on a main road, a thoroughfare,

I sit and watch the passage of commerce

And it makes me reflect on the wonders of work.

Why we do it, what it does for us.

Does it fulfil a need in us or is it to fulfil our worldly needs?

Do we live to work? Is it what we are here for?

I can create through my work all manner of useful things,

I can build a house; I can farm the land for food,

I can write a song to sing.

If I succeed in these endeavours I will rightly be proud,

I will also be able to rest, to feast and entertain,

 I will be fulfilled and have fulfilled a need.

But is that what work is today, or is it more sinister?

Is not the work of the world to produce profit not fulfilment?

If the fruits of my labour belong to someone else can I be proud of them?

Working for a wage does not seem noble,

Selling your skills without sharing in your achievements,

Degrades your worth and upgrades others.

So how is it that having a job is seen as virtuous?

When your work rewards others in a way that is outside your control,

Surely that should be seen as contemptuous.

In a complicated world it still easy to see that if through your work,

You can provide for you and yours then you can be content,

But it is not the job itself that gives that satisfaction.

If by necessity work needs to be organised and allocated to many workers

To complete the tasks in hand then for it to remain fulfilling

The results of that work need to be shared.