I sang my heart out in the summer street,
a child, happily singing to myself.
The street was empty. As if from heaven
a coin fell at my feet, shining in the sun.
My grandfather threw it from a window.
His secret. An early wrong impression.

I never have cared too much for money.
I never had very much either but
it’s an arrogance to say so, I think,
when I have enough food on my table
and a warm bed to crawl into at night,
free medical care and education

To say I have little is far from true.
I have what I earned. Maybe not my due.
Money has no flow, it’s stuck on a peak,
a thin trickle flowing down to dry earth.
In a hollow game where the odds are stacked
the rich give kind charity, after theft.

Oh yes, you can rise from poverty
if you are lucky. Work is not enough,
neither is merit. Poverty kills Will.
Try rising from the grind of the bottom
when hope has died generations ago,
it’s all a matter of accepting fate.

I have one picture in my head forever.
A party in the house of Dr. Prem.
He boasted to me that his name means Love.
He invited me around to admire his wealth.
He told me he donates to charity.
He practises yoga every day at dawn

Ah yes, a very fine man indeed was he.
Celebrating his daughters birthday
we had a fine meal too, ending with cake.
The cake was cut. We stood in a circle.
I passed a plate to the silent servant
”No, not her” he said. ”She’s Untouchable.”

Money brands everyone, blessed or untouched.
So enjoy your dinner in the restaurants
while the poor sleep rough on our city streets
in Agra, London, Paris, New York.
Don’t let them put their empty hand on you.
The bad luck of the poor may be catching