On the second floor landing,
a framed poster
catches my eye.
How can I ignore it?
A melanin-deprived man in
grip knee patch breeches
holds a champagne coupe
leans on a chrome-rich Bentley,
and toasts us, the viewer,
from under the phrase:
"Poverty Sucks."
This head-turning piece,
which I later learn is
attributed to Jerry Mesmer,
encapsulates and elicits
a Rorschach of a response.
Context is key:
I am viewing this work
while standing in a mansion
(not mine).
I am one of the povvos
scoping out the departed
owners' belongings and junk
sifting through
archaeological layers
of people blessed
with both longevity
and good returns.
Did the buyers hang this
as a warning?
As a joke?
Did they come from nothing?
Did this poster remind them?
Or were they born into this?
Did they want to
never forget
what it feels like
to have everything?
It makes a statement,
regardless.
This art,
and we do give it that title,
is held aloft on a central wall.
The owners must have passed
here several times a day.
Further, this spotted,
aging poster
in a cheap haphazard frame
bears a neon price tag:
$40.00.
Irony is not lost on me.
Nor, I hope,
did it escape
the prior owners.
Poverty Sucks.
But the plebes can buy
an ode to elitism for
two Jacksons, plus tax.
