OPULENCE

I sit in fine digs...
surrounded by possessions.
All is here.
Art, opulence, a collection of just about everything.
Technological devices...
Beautiful lake views...
acres of land...
boats...
expensive cars...
heated bathroom floors...
Bidets...
Hot tubs...
giant, flat-screen tvs, and surround-sound systems...
All is perfect here.
It's a perfectly designed world.
I't all too rich for me.
There are fresh flowers, fine wines, chocolates,
and thick steaks.
I come away with the impression...
that the rich are slaves to their things.
They own so much, that there is always...
another project.
Am I happy here?...NO.
Am I ill-at-ease?...YES.
I feel coldness.
I am an intrusive entity.
I feel as if, am not genuinely wanted.
Maybe I am wrong.
I dive into my book.
(a subversive tome, written by Hammond Guthrie.)
My host watches golf on NBC, ignoring me.
I hate golf.
He is a good man.
His wife is a good woman.
These facts, I cannot deny.
They are used to the ways of the rich.
That is all I am saying.
I still feel like an interloper...
an outsider.
I long for my musty basement...
with its bad art...
its bizarre collection of books...
its dust bunnies...
its spiders...
my toilet with its familiar ring of rust...
which can't be scrubbed clean.
This is my humble home.
It is where I welcome people and myself.
I don't feel anesthetized here.
This is my abode,
where you can walk in dirty shoes...
drop crumbs on the floor...
leave rings on coffee tables...
laugh, bellowing laughs...
You won't feel obtrusive, I promise you.
You won't feel bad vibes here.
You will not feel as if you are the enemy.
I am blue collar...
I am a working man...
They call me subversive.
I am the humanist...MAN.
I am a strange one.
I am a creative one.
I just am.