Fantasy (Poem)

if I didn't have to work -
if I was in the one per cent
money dripping like sticky honey from my little hives
money to pay someone else to do the dustwork of life
      cleaning laundry errands all that jazz
always enough, always enough, always enough

if that was the case, I would -
      garden and grow things
      write poems every single day
      bake luxurious cakes, and blog them
      go along to slam poetry fests and public lectures and sit there, glowing,
      read all the things there are to read, then read them all again
      parent perfectly, of course -

then I would say: life, it is beautiful
      I could say it in hundreds of tasteful and whimsical ways
      because I would have time to stare at flowers and so forth
      because there would be such a soft, silky screen between me and the harshness of the world
      the most bracing of parachutes for all life's travail -

if I didn't have to work, I might still choose to
I might graciously gift my time to worthwhile things; but then,
if they got boring, or unpleasant, I could always just stop
      because having lots of money means never having to eat shit so you can, well, eat

if I didn't have to work, if I was in the one per cent
(or even the ten, or the fifteen)
would it make me more, or less, who I am?
would I care about the same things, wandering be-dazed in the pleasure gardens of my life
would I care more?

it doesn't matter that this is unknowable; it seems safe to say
the opportunity will not arise to test the theorem

because I have to work
and take what hearts-ease I can in the slips and gaps between
being not to the manor born
being just a worker bee
bringing pollen back to the hive
not taking the sweetness of the honey away.

- Kathy, 12/5/15