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, awaiting my key,
a house like a yacht on a twelve-acre sea.
Crossing the foyer, my guests blink in awe,
struck by the bright tiers of candelabra.
I 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 to 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.
