The Poor

The rich are never rich enough,

And the poor?

The floor removes itself from the basement level,

And down they fall,

Into the pit of the three D’s,

Debt, drudgery and dejection.

Holes in their pockets,

Where the money drips out,

Like it was never there,

Perhaps it wasn’t.

Living in an overpriced ramshackle rented flat,

With black mould on the walls, and faulty wiring,

Weeds push themselves up through concrete,

Dominating the path to the front doors,

Everything they own is a second-hand, hand-me-down,

Or a charity shop bargain,

Right down the clothes on their backs,

The boots they walk around in.

There’s a jealousy and envy between the rich and the rich,

Greed that cannot be satiated,

Everyone wants to be one up on Mr. and Mrs. Jones,

Money is no object,

Until you find it gone.

Meanwhile in a place where luck doesn’t shine too pretty,

There’s a tension that hangs around,

Like the stench of an overloaded ashtray,

And lingers like a wine stain in a tatty beige shag pile carpet that won’t wash,

And sits uneasily on the eye in the center of the room,

Framed by bodies in uncomfortable postures,

Smoking cigarettes, in mismatched chairs.

Staring through a TV set, at a soap opera,

As a hazy beam of sunlight shoots in, through a tear in the curtains,

And lights up the dust and smoke in the atmosphere,

In a room where death is less feared,

Than money; or lack thereof.

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