SISYPHUS'S ACCEPTANCE

These days only he could see the rock,

so when he stopped for a bagel

at the bagel store, then for a newspaper

at one of those coin-operated stalls,

he looked like anyone else

on his way to work. Food —

the gods reasoned —

would keep him alive

to suffer, and news of the world

could only make him feel worse.

Let him think he has choices;

he belongs to us.

Rote not ritual, a repetition

which never would mean more

at the end than at the start…

Sisyphus pushed his rock

past the aromas of bright flowers,

through the bustling streets

into the plenitude and vacuity,

every arrival the beginning

of a familiar descent. And sleep

was the cruelest respite;

at some murky bottom of himself

the usual muck rising up.

One morning, however, legs hurting,

the sun beating down,

again weighing the quick calm of suicide

against this punishment that passed for life,

Sisyphus smiled.

It was the way a gambler smiles

when he finally decides to fold

in order to stay alive

for another game, a smile

so inward it cannot be seen.

The gods sank back

in their airy chairs. Sisyphus sensed

he’d taken something from them,

more on his own than ever now.