If he has his eyes at least half-opened,
He will, in time, be repulsed by the muck
Of his current camp—even if the others are not—
And he will set out from there, convinced that
A fresh start cannot be put off for another minute.
But what some never do in the least—
And none, it seems, ever do in the most
Is to take stock of just how much of that old muck
They have brought out of that miserable camp,
Caked on their own boots and ground into
Their clothes and skin and hair—
Grime and odor alike even making their way
Into the eyes and ears and mouths.
And thinking immediate shelter the pressing need,
They pitch camp not far from where they had set out,
Telling themselves that it is the new camp,
And not the full bath, that they had needed the most.
And day leads on to day,
The full bath never coming,
Even though they may wash a little here or there.
And he thanks God he is free
From the quagmire of that first camp—
And wonders why, from time to time,
Someone leaves his new camp,
Complaining about the filth.
And to this day,
Who among us campers knows
Just how clean a man could get
If it were his priority?
