I remember when, on the eve of Summer
kids would toss their binders up
and drench, to the bone, their pubescent bodies
with notes, and assignments, now retired
that rained down.

And on the 24th of December
with the family near, and the tree lit
and the stockings hung, everybody
is happy, and waiting.

And the 2nd of September, in '45
when the Allies finally called it quits
and returned to camp, to sleep
and go home.

The last hour of work
or, moreover, at work
tho often not spent working
(tho none are the wiser)
is sacred, as a testiment to
the things done, and their being so

That in mind, let us remember
jubilation is in order
for the last of things that will never
come again.