The Pain of a Rich Man
Hurt is unseen and unimportant,
I must hold myself to a higher standard.
Always pleasing, always civil to man,
A warrant of ‘well respect’ placed upon my head.
Fine wine and dining ever present upon my table,
Never the meager delicacies of a cold pizza.
My life is a poker game,
The façade I keep hides embarrassment.
I am not allowed to hold shame,
My frame cannot bend in a disappointed bow.
Authority and politeness are often expected,
Assumptions of my background are often predicted.
What more can be so contemptuous of me?
My life is a lie, to myself and my God.
I have worked hard my entire life to be Success;
I am not Success but a battered old man.
And yet my appearance would never suggest it.
And why not when I can afford rejuvenation?
Poor men despise me, and they spit upon my charity.
They do not seek my offered contributions.
Their only want is for me to be as lowly as they.
To whom am I a wealthy fool?
And yet I have revealed myself as the rich man.