Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, RICH FOLKS, POOR FOLKS, AND NEITHER, by JAMES HARRISON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

RICH FOLKS, POOR FOLKS, AND NEITHER, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Rich folks keep their teeth
Last Line: I was still a child of water and mud.
Alternate Author Name(s): Harrison, Jim
Subject(s): Poverty; Wealth; Riches; Fortunes


I

Rich folks keep their teeth
until late in life,
and park their cars in heated garages.
They own kitsch statues of praying hands
that conceal seven pouns of solid gold,
knowing that burglars hedge at icons.
At the merest twinge they go to the dentist,
and their dogs' anuses are professionally
inspected for unsuspected diseases.
Rich folks dream of the perfect massage
that will bring secret, effortless orgasm,
and absolutely super and undiscovered
islands with first-rate hotels
where they will learn to windsurf
in five minutes. They buy clothes that fit --
a forty waist means forty pants -- rich folks
don't squeeze into thirty-eights. At spas
they are not too critical of their big asses,
and they believe in real small portions
because they can eat again pretty quick.
Rich folks resent richer folks
and they also resent poor folks
for their failures at meniality.
It's unfortunate for our theory that the same
proportion of rich folks are as pleasant
as poor folks, a pitiless seven
percent, though not necessarily the ones
who still say their prayers and finish
the morning oatmeal to help the poor.
Everyone I have ever met is deeply
puzzled.

II

Up in Michigan poor folks dream of trips
to Hawaii or "Vegas." They muttered deeply
when the banker won the big lottery --
"It just don't seem fair," they said.
Long ago when I was poor
there was something in me that craved
to get fired, to drink a shot and beer
with a lump in my throat, hitchhike
or drive to California in an old car,
tell my family "I'll write if I get work."
In California, where you can sleep outside
every night, I saw the Pacific Ocean
and ate my first food of the Orient,
a fifty-cent bowl of noodles and pork.
No more cornmeal mush with salt pork
gravy, no more shovels at dawn,
no more clothes smelling of kerosene,
no more girls wearing ankle bracelets spelling
another's name. No more three-hour waits
in unemployment lines, or cafeteria catsup
and bread for fifteen cents. I've eaten
my last White Tower burger and I'm heading
for the top. Or not. How could I dream
I'd end up moist-eyed in the Beverly Hills Hotel
when I ordered thirteen appetizers for myself
and the wheels of the laden trolley squeaked?
The television in the limousine broke down
and I missed the news on the way to look
at the ocean where there were no waves.
When I went bankrupt I began to notice cemeteries
and wore out my clothes, drank up the wine cellar.
I went to the movies and kissed my wife a lot
for the same reason -- they're both in technicolor.
Everyone I met in those days was deeply puzzled.

III

Now I've rubbed rich and poor together
like two grating stones, mixed them temporarily
like oil and vinegar, male and female, until
my interest has waned to nothing. One night I saw
a constellation that chose not to reappear,
drifting in the day into another galaxy.
I tried to ignore the sound of my footsteps
in the woods until I did, and when I swam
in the river I finally forgot it was water,
but I still can't see a cow without saying cow.
Perhaps this was not meant to be. I dug
a deep hole out in a clearing in the forest
and sat down in it, studying the map
of the sky above me for clues, a new bible.
This is rushing things a bit, I thought.
I became a woman then became a man again.
I hiked during the night alone and gave
my dogs fresh bones until they no longer cared.
I bought drinks for the poor and for myself,
left mail unopened, didn't speak on the phone,
only listened. I shot the copy machine with my rifle.
No more copies, I thought, everything original!
Now I am trying to unlearn the universe
in the usual increments of nights and days.
Time herself often visits in swirling but gentle clouds.
Way out there on the borders of my consciousness
I've caught glimpses of that great dark bird,
the beating of whose wings is death, drawing closer.
How could it be otherwise? I thought.
Down in the hole last August during a thunderstorm
I watched her left wing-tip shudder past
between two lightning strokes. Maybe I'll see her again
during the northern lights, but then, at that moment,
I was still a child of water and mud.





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