poor:

The word itself appears dried up,

too scantily clad to survive,

too striped of bone, devoid of desire;

no evident, attendant Bling!

bling: a none-existent word back then

all through the slow, long years of youth

when we said fancy-stuff, as in,

“Who really wants that fancy stuff?”

licking our lips in blusterous denial.

I don’t remember being poor or “pour”

as I would have said back then….and still do.

Daddy always worked long, hard hours,

burnt dark pumping gas…fixing flats.

We always had a rust-free, used car

staunchly devoid of Bling! except

that ’59 Chevy with fender-skirts

and air and re-upholstered seats!

We always had a house; tiny but clean,

clapboarded, rural rentals with,

in my earliest years, an outhouse,

but in my room, in the darkest spot,

a child’s white enameled pot with

a red-rimed lid was kept for me;

I did have a pot to piss in.

I did not feel so different

because of that….I did not know

the reason I felt singular.

I remember first grade school bus

and being called sunk-eyes; me,

the poster kid for sickly-child

with breath pilfering asthma,

a snot-rag dampening my pocket

during the glories of Spring and Fall

and being alone, balled-up,

in a paint-peeled Adirondack

built from scrap and hope by dad

in a rented yard in brilliant sun,

and wondering if pollen had

attacked my heart as it had

my nose and lungs and eyes

and infected hope, stolen joy

and would I ever unclasp my knees

and unfurl my wheezing mind.