The Irony of Being Poor
on our daily morning drive to work we would pass
coming round the bend underneath the flyover
a tattered, faded sofa couch with rusted brass
planted centerpiece on the cracked concrete cover
there sat a weather worn man with leathery skin
who had on a semi permanent toothless grin
the bumper to bumper gridlocked traffic rush
would always give us ample time to stare at him
a short term audience for his captivating whim
a live canvas with an imaginary brush
day after day he’d play up to the attention
with ticklish antics much to our adoration
some days he’d have a coffee mug in his right hand
an imaginary baton clenched in his left
and with both eyes closed, sway his head and magic wand
in tune with some rhythmic music that’s sound bereft
other days he would play the fool to our stare
and leer back at us, as if to call us a dare
we soon came to view his act as part of our trip
one that’d be incomplete if we don’t catch his glow
and we would wonder why he has us in his grip
that we would worry about there being no show
perhaps it was ‘cause he seemed to have too much time
and not a lot of care for someone in his prime
whatever is it that he did for a living
not that he was oddly rich or had too much cash
rather he seemed to be too poor to be so brash
and carefree with nary a worry ‘bout working
he soon became the envy of our small car pool
‘stead of being tagged as a time forgotten fool
how we all wished we’d have the leisure of his time
instead of being slaves in pursuit of our dreams
how we wished we could have his smile amidst the grime
the control of his time amidst life’s daily streams
but knew the irony of him being so poor
is what let him live what we still hope to secure
