Like Orwell at Eton
I attended an institution
to which I did not belong.
Sure, my folks paid the same tuition other parents did,
but that is where the similarity ended.
I was not the son of a bank president,
or the scion of old money from origins
long forgotten by the current holders.
Yes, I lived on a street where people
drove to look at the houses
but I had torn the bread bag insulation from the walls
and pulled up witch grass by hand
to restore it to its former glory.
Across the street, one Christmas morning
twin Mercedes sat gleaming,
huge red ribbons tied around them.
I’ve never known that kind of gift.
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