A Rich Man

A pocketful of promises makes me
A rich man, an impressive empty man,
Regretting nothing but that useless plan
For living well, that clueless certainty
About uncertain things. A maple tree
I climbed by standing on a garbage can
Stands mocking my despair, with rare élan.
The can is gone, and I stare helplessly.

I had no plan for this: displacement, change,
Anything new. I promised, and I sinned,
They promised me in turn, my palms were skinned,
The promises covered a wider range
Than previously, and they have grown strange.
A rich man apprehends the passing wind.