We go hiking and the rich people
bring all their things.

Portable fold-out things,
three-in-one clipped up things,
Kathmandu carabiners for
someone else to carry.

They talk about things in
plurals; holidays and houses
and that family, the
Brazen-broken-sowzers.

They know what yachts feel like
and how the European curves
of the earth look at seven pm
in June. We know because
they tell us. They like talking, too.

At night we slip into our bags
in rows of sleepy worms while
they’re still up zipping away all
their gold so no one takes it
in the dark, our own snap locks
quietly spilling out onto the floor.

We’ve all got our own sad eyes.
We’ve all lost one thing or another,

And here we are -
we are free.