The brief case man

The city-dweller doesn’t drive.
He is kept by the voyaging salvo -
two-button fastening and dry clean only.

The brief case man treads on woolen slabs,
towards a mid-tower hovel in the poor man’s sky.
With the reverberating sycophantic slurs of Richelieu,

the lone vagabond fills pockets with gold dust,
lies comfortably beneath a fifteen-tog duvet;
laments hysterically into yielding hands.

The brief case man fears the bewildering ambivalence of nature’s daunting solitude,
though tempted by its unerring allure.
Prosperity lay in the land, Wealth with freedom, Intellect with isolation,
Contentment, with others.