Prompted by Poets & Storytellers United.
Having been born and raised a poor relation
of rich folk in a filthily rich nation
has left me with a view some may find curious
of poverty that some would call luxurious.
The Benedictine monks and nuns revised,
they say, their views, when they proselytized
in places where their poverty--a small cell
but warm, dry, quiet, clean, and lighted well;
plain food, but regular, and fresh; plain clothes
changed and cleaned often, covering head to toes--
was seen as luxury; some wished to stay
just to enjoy such comforts every day,
One year a foreign friend came home with me,
He was a doctor's son. I thought I'd be
embarrassed when he saw that we weren't rich,
but how we looked to him was quite a switch.
His old car failed. "No worries! Take the bus!
If you need money, send the bill to us!"
"They're hospitable; must be rich," thought he.
A clunky old car met us. He could see
that it was worth some money, even though
it was built more than twenty years ago.
We walked up the unpaved road, and he saw all
the bruised fruits and stale nuts left where they fall.
The neighbors pastured cattle! Oh, the smell!
Good pastureland, sleek cattle, he could tell.
"No guest sleeps on the couch," my father said,
"when at the big house he can have a bed."
The house looked big enough, to visitor's eyes,
but we had use of one four times its size.
Of all these wonders, our guest thought most cool
that my young sister was in private school.
I cringed; he was a fast learner; she, slow.
"The younger girl's no genius, but can go
to private school!" he later told his kin.
"Oh, what a family to marry in!"
Poor as a mouse in a long-abandoned church,
living on what is still paid for research,
I own computers, and know how to use'm.
I've read more history than, say, Gavin Newsom.
I've had the luxuries of education,
experience, talent, taste, and "liberation."
Some say "poor," some "eccentric" (which is which?),
but quite a few still think I'm very rich.
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