You Think Me Foolish For Being Poor

You think me foolish
for being poor.
what, no thoughts?
Afraid to speak them?
Don’t worry.
I already know.

I’m brazen brass
left to the sea,
but too young to be
I must have taken
a wrong path
with red ‘do not enter’

I’m a new puppy
to be endured
until discipline
has made me
I must still be
around at night,
never thinking to turn on
a flashlight.

What shall I say to you?
Should I stand up
in all my patched up glory,
puff out my dirty chest?
Should I rip the shovel
from your hand
and bury your waste
with pride?
Should I think myself better
because you judge so harshly
and wrong, in my opinion.
Should I hate you
because you so easily cruised
through a pit that I

Or should I admit
you’re right?

Or should I wait
for the day my ship
is taken ashore,
when my brazen brass sides
are polished–
all the while simply
doing my work
and ignore the jibs and guile?

Should I wait
for the day I grow
into a trained adult,
with at least strong paws
and long legs
to stand for my case
of wisdom?

Should I but wait
for this phase
and you
to pass away?

For what use are you
but to pass
if you dismiss me
so easily?

You think me foolish.
perhaps I am.
But then so are you.


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