At the end of it all, it would not matter

how many books you wrote,

the ones you edited, or the poems published,

the lectures you gave and the eloquence you bore,

the posts you held, how meritorious and hardworking

were you, no one would remember or speak

of the late-night grind as you checked the answer sheets,

or the morning hours you spent, preparing for a 11 o’ clock class.

 

At the end of it all, the only thing that matters

is the hand you picked and the feet you helped

to walk. The arms you held and the smiles you gave

and the tears you wiped, and the kindness you showed

as he wept at a loss of someone dear,

and the way you choked as you spoke of his grief

and how your heart missed a beat,

when you heard her story of how children betrayed

and left her in the lurch, with no shelter to reside in,

and you brought her home to a house with an offer

of a tea, warm and sweet.