Tell me, what is it like to be rich?

There’s smugness in your face Undeniably born with a silver spoon A Matisse in your playroom We all know you’re a trust fund baby The Parisian arts on the stairwell walls Tasteful antiques in the living room Old masters drawings that stare at me while I gaze at it, observing every detail of every masterpiece One art would pay off all my debts and would send me to college All the trophy of your grandfather’s safari hunts displayed and showcased Wealth inherited throughout a generation There’s sophistication in your words We breathe the same air But a clear distinction of the class is apparent I am born poor; I’d kill to climb the social ladder An immigrant from a third world country Ignorant with the western ideals, society and culture Dirt poor, raised with my mother’s blood, sweat and tears

© Kelaiah Amador 2020