Et In Arcadia Ego

Oh, that's it, Keko. Pass through. Go ahead.
Just walk across my books without a glance,
with all that arrogant insousiance
of yours, encoded in that languid tread.

No, never mind that I've been up all night
engrossed in them. What now? So why the pause?
Ah, now I see. You might retract your claws
in expectation of a fondle-fight.

What must it be, to live a life by whim,
to eat, to sleep, to gambol, amble, bask
as humour takes you, never think to ask
of costs or consequences, to never trim

or balance, need to tack, or double back.
There's no-one holding you to strict account.
You waste your time guilt-free, don't have to mount
defence or mitigation. If you lack

the cares and burdens of my tedious chores,
perhaps there's something else you'll never own
-- a subtle thing called purpose, which alone
gives point to my percentages and scores.

Don't look so smug for landing on all fours!
This ledger's done. I know I have to die,
and that's my tragedy. You, pumpkin pie,
don't have a clue what's coming. And that's yours.

 

 

Author's Note

In the 17th century, European painters went through a phase (perhaps I should say "craze") of depicting an earthly paradise, with no pain or suffering, no shortages, where three puzzled shpherds have just found a tombstone. They are trying to figure out what it can be. On the stone are carved the Latin words, "Et In Arcadia Ego" -- "I (death, that is) Am Also Here in Paradise".