All profits disappear: the gain
of ease, the hoarded, secret sum;
And now grim digits of old pain
return to litter up our home.
We hunt the cause of ruin, add,
subtract, and put ourselves in pawn;
For all our scratching on the pad,
we cannot trace the error down.
What we are seeking is a fare
one way, a chance to be secure:
The lack that keeps us what we are,
the penny that usurps the poor.
Theodore Roethke (1908-1963)