a poem by Frank Diamond

Envelopes set aside on coffee tables
On counters, on uninterrupted spaces
That can’t be messed or forgotten about
Mealy greenbacks angling out of flaps
“They charge you for writing checks, you know.”
Dollars meted out by metered mothers
And mothers-in-law (Let us not forget!)
Widows’ alms set aside “for the poor”
Maybe not noticing the irony therein
That they themselves were so not rich
Living in subsidized senior citizen housing
Recall, then, the generosity of Mary and Gen
They gave until the nursing home took
Residents not allowed access to cash
To “give to the poor” as they’d always done
For church, suffer children, and homeless vets
Oh, and for family, sometimes taking bets
And no longer does the irony escape me
Just what the hell am I doing “for the poor?”
Only now realizing where true wealth resides.