I get confused.
The jackets made from the skin of the underdog,
worn with a dismissive self importance.
I dont like the familiar,
but I will forgive the stranger –
until he starts to button up that swagger.
Until the corners of his lips curl,
at the expense of
a poor man on his knees.
Says me, who grew up with money.
Wanted for nothing.
Understood even less.
Life stitched together with