I always look forward to Mondays.

Mondays, the shops bustle and traffic snarls

coffee shops hum the caffeine buzz

But Mondays are particular

fastidious and expedient

as I ride to my therapist’s  

on a route into the heartland  

of worldly wealth.

Ah, Pistachio! The flowers are prettier,

the grass is greener, the people are finer.

I go dressed in my best casual wear that doubles

for more formal occasions,

Can they tell?

They seem so friendly with their capri pants and  

innocuous sandals. Can they see?

They smile and have an air of openness to everything good.

They like it when you spend money on their baked goods  

and consignment clothing

They answer all your questions up until you pay.

Then you’re garbage. Don’t come back for a refund.

Can they feel?

Hearts of black and stone, the gods of prosperity and the good life are appeased again. What shall we say, we who live close to the poverty line? A new bitterness forms, one that was never felt before because childhood was about equality, so the teachers tried to make it so. Sheltered from the evil eye of the god of money, playgrounds were a place of play-nice-play-fair. Everyone share. Never did it cross our minds that we were inadequate for life’s blessings.

So we intrude upon a neighbourhood of shopkeepers whose philosophy is “Money comes in but never goes out.” Disdain upon the lower middle-class. But if you’re young and beautiful, they will give you much room, and ask you, what do you want to be when you graduate? God forbid you should be a loser and say, “a poet”. Maybe you need a little more pep talk. But not now. The curtain draws over their face and they are smiling at someone else, the next person in the line.

In their worldly way, they mean well. After all, the followers of Mammon look after their own. Why should I tug at the blind? If they are happy, so be it. But see, the super-rich draw their gates that say, “Guard on-duty”. The poor have nothing to lose to a thief. You know, these quasi-rich are just trying to maintain a lifestyle of ease and respectability. Just know your place. They drive the nicer cars. They live in beautiful houses. Their children go to private schools. You may be better than their servants, but you’ll never be one of them. Their gates are in their hearts, closing and shunning, inviting you to trespass, daring you to cross the boundary line. They hate the Asian children of railway workers who built Canada with their blood. They remember, and try to make it seem like it was your own fault. Don’t address them. Don’t remind them of their inhumanity. After all, they do own labradors and golden retrievers. They give to the needy at the hospital–as long as they get a mention. They give to the food drive at Christmas. What do you expect? After all, their god is Mammon. They do mean well, however short they fall of glory. Isn’t that right?

In the end, the bitterness that our ancestors knew is all we know now. What they found out we now find out ourselves. What they taught us and we dismissed as old-fashioned attitudes are indeed relevant. Where do we go from here? Do we also like that wonderful band sings, “There’s no worry on the earth tonight; we’re walking off the world tonight,”? I wish for better things in our children’s future, but Mammon is a demon god, not a servant. To gain, one must appease it. If it calls for inhumanity, one must commit it. If it calls for compassion, one must live up to it. Who told the children of Poverty to consort with the pseudo-wealthy when they were not summoned? Who allowed them to trespass? Begone and good riddance.

The Children of Poverty, however much they are immortalized by lore and literature, are like dust; they are the majority and have nowhere to fall. Fear them for their desperation and rein them in by their desperation. If you can silence the loquacious ones with gifts, buy their silence, then do it.

Do everything and anything to keep the status quo.