The Rich Ride Giraffes to Work

The rich ride giraffes to work.

Long-legged beasts in Gucci saddles,

craning necks through clouds

as if heaven issued stock options.

Meanwhile, I’m over here

sharing a bagel with a raccoon named Debt,

who’s squatting in my ceiling

and insists he’s "just manifesting abundance."

We water our basil with tears.

They water their lawns with champagne.

When I sweat, I glisten.

When they sweat, it's “bespoke detox.”

Their toddlers learn Mandarin from nannies

who know six languages and zero rest days.

My kid learns resilience

from reruns and Wi-Fi that wheezes like an old man.

We build castles in our heads.

They buy castles in France.

I once traded three hugs and a leftover taco

for a ride to a job that ghosted me.

But still, I smile

like a revolution wearing glitter.

Still, I dream

like a crow with a briefcase full of blueprints.

Still, I rise

on my imaginary giraffe,

whispering to the sky:

just wait till we flip the script, darling.