She never felt entitled, a toddler who grew
in a house with high ceilings,
three chandeliers, perfect wooden floors
covered in thick oriental rugs.
Long red curls on her pristine white collar
of her very best dresses,
her mother’s doll put on display at the country club,
a porcelain face to be put on a shelf.
She never felt entitled, a woman who grow
when a family was broke by the loss of a father.
Penniless she left to start anew, finishing her degree
in a dingy apartment she could afford.
She returns to her childhood home,
rugs now worn flat, only when her mother asks.
Her riches to rags, an anomaly she doesn’t mind.