fingers to the bone

I've never been a workaholic,
one to burn
the midnight oil, or work my
fingers to the bone.
I know when to stop, when
to say enough
and go home.
the work will be there when
I get back.

I have that kind of job,
i'm lucky in that respect.
it's different though if
your a doctor, it's a matter
of life and death. lives depend
upon you picking up
the phone, or paying a visit.

but I live in a different
world.
when a job is done it's done.
no looking back.
I don't need to tell others
that I worked seventy
hours last week, and the weekend
too. punching the clock
on holidays. answering
the phone at midnight for
something that can wait
until the next morning.

I get it though, having worked
for slave drivers,
greedy souls who crack
the whip upon your back.
everyone thinks that what they
do is so important,
that they are irreplaceable,
they drink the koolaid,
they kneel and pray to boss
who calls from his villa
on the bay.

how many forks and spoons
do you need, how much food
can you eat, or beds you
can sleep in.
how many cars do you need
to drive around in. I don't
want to lie on my death
bed and say, I wished I had
worked a little more,
a little harder. having had
no fun, no joy, no time
to relax. no bliss.