Beware: The Billionaire is Angry

The billionaire's enraged. Angry

with women, with labor unions, with

"woke" people (but not mad enough

to say what he means by that word).

Lava-livid with academics,

except the ones whose research

undergirds his products. He's ticked

off with a former wife and a "disloyal"

child. He's not, though, especially upset

with neo-Nazis. Meanwhile,

the fellow who bags the groceries

people buy and retrieves carts

from the parking lot in cold rain,

cheerfully greets me. We exchange

polite words and laugh. He reminds

me not to forget that he's placed

items at the bottom of the cart.

"Yesterday, two people forgot theirs,"

he cautions. He seems to like

his minimum-wage job and life

well enough not to project rage.

The angry billionaire will "earn"

14 million dollars today. My mind,

as it doesn't forget to load the under-cart

items in the back of my car, goes

to Steve, the man who bagged

the tomatoes and rice and

so on. . . .  His red-bearded

face, full of good will. 

Hans Ostrom 2024

"Question" (1922), by Langston Hughes

"The Witch," by W.B. Yeats

On Deciding Not to Become Wealthy

The evidence suggests getting rich
was not one of my priorities.
I studied literature and took up
writing poetry: any questions?

Also, I've always worked. Rather
late in the game, I noticed most
rich people don't work a lot.
Or at all.

Way back in the ago-era,
I ran my own weed- and grass-
cutting business, age 15.

Since then: different wage-jobs--
labor at a gravel-plant, hod-
carrying, washing pots,
writing sports articles, pounding
nails, digging trenches,
reading standardized tests.

Also a salaried job. Professor.
I see now that this was the path
for me.  I think if I were rich, I'd
be very nervous, less generous,
and much more of a fuck-up
than I already have been.

That's my report.



Hans Ostrom, 2012

The Curse of Wealth?

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The Curse of Wealth?

Hear the penniless man howl
when you tell him wealth's a curse.
"Then curse me," he'll say, and
there's no argument good enough
to silence his derision. Still,

there was that rich man--he
just died--who seemed to drag
an invisible bag behind him,
full of capital, a father's
ambitions for his sons, blunt
and sharp weapons of politics,
all of it weighing so much, too much.

There was a family compound, also
a family-machinery that melted laws.
Amidst it all, the man was cursed
with living long, knowing secrets
and sin, and staying married to
noblesse oblige. He's elsewhere

now. Maybe God will have treated
him as just another soul relieved
of life, as someone blessedly
obscure. The penniless man scoffs
at such notions of tragedy and
theology, as well he might. Still,

the rich and public man knew misery,
a special kind, a gilded curse.


Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom