It’s too hot to focus on getting rich
I can feel the lack salting my skin
Lakes of sweat stain this hand-me-down chair
From before I was born
If only I’d been born rich
Keep the silver spoon I’ll take
My own walls—AC—a parking space
A spare room if it’s not too much to ask
I’d paint it something fun and rich
Like lilac or lime green or whatever
Color feels like putting bills on autopay and deleting
That damned banking app when that phone congests
If I were rich I could have more
Phones than there are stars in my eyes
But I wouldn’t and I shouldn’t waste
The time I can barely afford in the first place
Thinking about phones and marrying rich
As if I could ever be with a man whose sweat
Has never mocked and melted him to
A rotting chair on a fiery Thursday