One Poem by Annette Towler

 

House among the Rich 

 

Who are we to speak of poverty? Our plates are full of red meat, and you sip from your full glass of whisky

I nurture the brandy cup.

 

Is it the memory of being once lean of change that increases our tendency to purchase the generic brand and to place coins in an old, tin cup?

 

One sip, two sips, whole with a wallet full of notes, your lips on mine in

our house among the Rich.

 

The rich are immune to the swings and sways of the grocery bill

deeply in love with each other, they drive slowly down Lake Drive, imagining what it might feel like to be the man, huddled and cold on the bench in wealthy Milwaukee County, who slowly counts his coins and dreams of 

a burrito, stuffed with beans, rice, and poultry.

 

Who are we to speak of loss? Our purses crammed full of silver and gold coins, resisting temptation, to spend it all on the lottery or, heaven forbid,

at the Blackjack and poker tables, where everything can be exchanged for the right price.

 

We rise up in the morning, grateful for the groceries delivered to the door

You look at me and I look at you

Grateful for being so rich. 

Annette Towler - was born in England and moved to the United States in the early 1990s. I enjoy my job as a therapist and in my spare time I like to run. I live with my partner Gardner in an old house in Milwaukee and we have a sweet cat called Marsha.