I was raised with worn upholsteryAnd so I am not A part of that class Which appreciates new things.I wish it were different at timesBut it is what it is.Once in a whileMy comfortable soulBeguiles itselfInto believing That there is a virtueIn my poverty But there is not,No more Than there is virtueIn your wealth.It is a mistake to believe In that kind of goodness.In former lives, perhaps,I envied you your leatherBut not any more.I rest deep in my old thingsand breath the sweet mediocrityWhich contents itselfWith the old.It sounds sadWhen I put it that way.But it is true.Thank you.Thank you for letting me be.We are not so differentYou and I,Both bound by the familiarBoth resting in that thingWhich most comforts Our afflictions.But then again,Don't put it past me To stay in your hotelOr to relish in your richnessOf a June.But home for me Will always be In that thingWhich you discard. And if you ever tire of frettingOver your expensive cacheFeel free to rest Upon my couchIt will not fret Or show the scratchLike the leatherOne at home.I wonder if it's true This thing I've said to you.Is it ok, that I don't careTo prosper like the masses?I hope so,For I am tired of pretending.

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