I was raised with worn upholstery
And so I am not
A part of that class
Which appreciates new things.
I wish it were different at times
But it is what it is.
Once in a while
My comfortable soul
Beguiles itself
Into believing
That there is a virtue
In my poverty
But there is not,
No more
Than there is virtue
In your wealth.
It is a mistake to believe
In that kind of goodness.
In former lives, perhaps,
I envied you your leather
But not any more.
I rest deep in my old things
and breath the sweet mediocrity
Which contents itself
With the old.
It sounds sad
When I put it that way.
But it is true.
Thank you.
Thank you for letting me be.
We are not so different
You and I,
Both bound by the familiar
Both resting in that thing
Which most comforts
Our afflictions.
But then again,
Don't put it past me
To stay in your hotel
Or to relish in your richness
Of a June.
But home for me
Will always be
In that thing
Which you discard.
And if you ever tire of fretting
Over your expensive cache
Feel free to rest
Upon my couch
It will not fret
Or show the scratch
Like the leather
One at home.
I wonder if it's true
This thing I've said to you.
Is it ok, that I don't care
To prosper like the masses?
I hope so,
For I am tired of pretending.
