THE ACCOUNTANT Poem by Gerrit Komrij

Another man. He lays my chattels bare.
The time has come to tot up the accounts.
He lists my goods - from castles in the air
To golden bracelet. I am stripped right down.

My probate clerk leaves not a thing untold.
He counts and counts. His strength seems to accrue.
For him the stuff of memory is gold.
He wants the substance and the trimmings too.

Once I'm completely figured, he's quite bland.
The one who's grasped that the accountant's earnings
Were not what he had earned, and that you can,
Unearning, earn the most, is most discerning.