Slipped in

i am not poor i am not rich

when i hear the words middle class

i picture a man coming home from

work, drinking a glass of wine on the back porch

still in his slacks

his minivan clean like a missile in the driveway

no he is not a real person, just a thin idea

that crept in quickly when I said the words aloud

I didn't hear him because the carpet is thick

and his gate is measured

if i can hold myself aloof

not really care which end I bump against

that must mean I am not hungry enough

or full enough not to

be his eccentric cousin

I know where dinner is coming from tonight

and tomorrow

and the next day

but when I hear pension

I think pensione

as in a place to stay for the night

Someone once said both the rich and the poor

understand

that the game is rigged

it is the middle which pushes on in faith

there are a few reasons why I have not worked

very hard at these things

there is disinterest

and sloth

and a lot of years staring into space

it has to do with me and me alone

the things I preferred to do rather than get a real job

the couches I sleep on instead

the wives and mothers and girlfriends

who regret having offered me a place

for the night

I am not proud and I am not good

I have driven my own minivan to nowhere

arriving at strangers' homes

padding across the carpet to drink

their wine

on their porches

wearing their clothes

while on and on birds fly past the cherry trees in the back yard.