poverty rich

I stand in the aftermath,
where the earth roared and spat
its molten truth, swallowing
the homes of those who believed
they had something to keep.

The ash blankets everything,
a silent testament to the folly
of possession, of thinking
you can hold onto anything
in this world of shifting sand.

Me? I’ve always rented,
my life a series of temporary
rooms and transient addresses,
a man without a fixed point
in a universe of impermanence.

No car, no house, no ties
to anything but my cats,
who roam as freely as I do.
My work is in the wind,
the voice in the mobile,
interpreting the world’s chaos
from wherever I choose to stand.

I have nothing, and in that,
I have everything. No loss
to mourn, no thing to miss.
Freedom in the void,
strength in the absence
of all the trappings
others cling to, fear to lose.

And they say, “You brag
about your nothingness,
your fortunate lack.
Maybe we should gift you
a house, a car, a thing
to call your own, just to see
you finally lose.”

But they don’t understand.
In my emptiness, I am full,
unburdened, unbroken
by the weight of ownership.
The world can crumble,
the earth can rage,
but I stand unscathed,
a modern wanderer,
free in my poverty,
rich in my nothingness.