Chance said, Build for me a house;
sketch a blueprint as if for real.

But the rogue contractor out for a fast deal
doesn’t turn up. The clock ticks the hours.

Hands that labored since well before dawn
hauled stone, squared off beams, laid

the foundation by themselves. Dreams are made
from more than hope or dreaming: Money down,

says the one whose job is to procure
the hardware. Or take out a loan

equivalent to your desire. When that’s all gone,
sell dream after dream for someone else’s sinecure.

Surely there’s sacrifice still pleasing to the gods;
surely some reward exists as more than just a goad.


In response to Via Negativa: Proverbial.

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