Poor Man

Poor Man

I am a poor man.

I wear diamonds and gold on my fingers,

silk are my shirts and my ties.

I have a maid and a butler, and, waiting my key,

a house like a yacht on a twelve-acre sea.

Crossing the foyer, my guests link in awe,

struck by the bright tiers of candelabra.

Glide down the stairs…the help all make way…

banister cedar, carpet of cream.

Off to the office; my landscaping team

lines ’neath the maples and blesses my day.

I have a driver.

I am borne on Corinthian leather,

soundproofed, aloof of the crowd.

I have a barber and tailor; attentive are they,

prompt is the doorman, polite my valet.

Crossing the lobby, the stares once again

rise in respect to a captain of men.

Riding the lift…inferiors make space…

envy my status, covet my place.

Wage earners focus, toadies tuck ties,

steady their voices and ready their eyes.

And I stroll like a king, lest the world realize

I am a poor man.