Today We Dressed Up And Pretended To Be Rich

Today we dressed up

and pretended to be rich

held a mirror, cracked and splintered,

ran the last drop of oil through each

   matted hair

 

 

laid hogs’ eyes in a bowl,

threaded them to pearls

rubbed chalk dust on our grandmother’s cheeks

dabbed vinegar behind her ear

 

 

folded tissue, yellow, (thin as it was)

in our father’s top pocket,

admired a man whose handkerchief

is woven of gold.

 

 

Our brother drew arabesques

on old sodden boots,

transformed them with a gutting knife

into lush fancy brogues.

 

 

Our sister made a crown

of driftwood and spent card

wore a bridal gown of untreated leather

teamed with a supermarket bag.

 

 

And we climbed aboard a cart that day,

journeyed like royals along the smog-swirl streets.

Our neighbours lined the pavement, cheered:

“They are rich! They are rich! God bless them,

they are rich!”

 

 

And we waved, heads high, threw

broken stems and brittle grass for all

their children’s pleasure.

 

 

But our youngest sister cried

her wealth too much to bear

because all the money in the world

she had been told can not buy

   contentment.

 

 

And the neighbours who once cheered

now laughed at her tears.

“Please, do not mock her” I shouted.

“Our sister will always be rich

   in love”.

 

 

And as I said these things she knelt

at the pavement’s edge, wiped her ruby eyes,

found an end of bread, discarded,

a fallen bird which she fashioned

into sweetmeats fit for

   a queen.