But I Own A Mr. Coffee

Been thinking about status and stuff lately….

“Nope,” I said, shaking head;

Don’t have a Moen, or an Axor for my sink,

Counters not Formica, It’s granite, I think.

Willamette, Santa Rosa, Napa, Malbec?

Second shelf; on sale, I just read the label on the back.

Say what? I don’t know what ‘expendable’ means,

But I own a Mr. Coffee to grind up my beans.

"Yup, I agree,"

I’m working blue collar with a bachelor’s degree---

My nights aren’t always off nor weekends always free.

Vacations booked with triple A; Hotels dot com for beds;

Flying economy, ‘Oh the people next to me!’

Using our shoulders for their heads.

Don’t stay in a five-star, don’t eat Michelin,

There’s a patio view from the room we are in.

Glory! We've been able to go places (you know the beans they grow),

Kona, Antigua, Andhra Pradesh,

Mr. Coffee brews them delightfully fresh.

“I’ve made more…,”

Director, boss, manager of store;

Ego likes the title, soul its’ freedom more.

Oh contentment; staying in my lane is hard,

Competing with the Joneses jacks the credit card.

I step back, sigh, laugh—pursuit of status is a gyp,

End of the day we all end up in a crypt.

By some standards I don’t have much,

A kid, wife and God who loves me,

And I own a Mr. Coffee!