THE WEALTHY POOR

You are tired
of suffering gladly
in your extravagant coat
from the Salvation Army,
telling me
as I interview you
for a human interest story
in the Free Press
or what's left of it
how you,Howie
stole a racing car
when you were fourteen
ordering seven drinks
from your boy scout canteen
spouting off
your life time story
for the fourteenth time
on a park bench
with no one else here
to wink,laugh or overhear,
somehow the brandy
makes you feel ordinary
as you start to make
fisticuffs at me
calling everyone
a bastard or bitch
spilling your wallet
and limitless wet dreams
on your Bermuda
getting your way
at the bar last night
sitting by the piano player
playing twenty pick ups
with no luck
for you are a child braggart
an upstart wealthy poor
as the unmoved bouncer
handed you a warning
and a dark coffee
under half-closed eyes
a poet and journalist
rescued you
from the wrestling coach
next to you.