Compromised, but Comfortable

“Money buys the nicest things,” he says.
I do not disagree. We're on the patio
Behind his house and gazing at the sea,
The messy, vexing details of sustaining
Oneself far away. The money came
From Mom and Dad. He's never faced
Those details, never learned to hoard
Or covet in the manner of those self-made
Men (whose portraits line a nearby
Hallway). Always gracious, perfectly
At ease because he knows no fears,
He saw me in the market, said he'd
Read me, and invited me to come up here
And have a drink, and I, a communist
Of easy virtue, did not frown and say,
“Your wealth has come from exploitation.
You must share it with the ones whose
Labor brought it into being.” Instead,
I've come to let him share a little of it
Now with me, to drink, and gaze,
Converse, and tell myself he knows
Whereof he speaks. Money, clean
Or dirty, lets one buy the nicest things.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 94 times
Written on 2017-07-30 at 14:42

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