On Social Strata
Don’t look askance upon my lowly stature on the ladder.
Your great disdain even to shake my hand
Says more about your character than mine.
If your nose turned up any more, the rain would soak your brain – but -
No great damage there.
I think your little grey cells have crawled,
Like embryonic spiders,
Into your deep, slow-sucking crevasses of self love.
Whilst I, who am nothing, have nothing,
Embrace both good and ugly.
My tender touch brings healing, joy, and,
If I may aspire to such dizzy claims,
Come, we can start again,
There is no shame,
A little confidence is all you need to muster.
I’ll be your ever-faithful friend,
Though I am but a humble duster.