Inner Poverty

Animated, he speaks -
hundred dollar bills
spew from his maw.

Tennis perspiration -
gold coins puddle
near his feet.

Diamond studded
ignorance mounts in
each eye, cold, blind.

He plays at being ordinary;
wealth is shameful, not his fault -
country club traditions; politics.

The house sits back a bit.
Old money, you know;
don’t put on a show.

But stray dogs never
follow him home.

I stroll through the gardens,
repulsed, with wrinkled nose -

the rank of inner poverty
wafting from every rose.

Written January 9, 2003