“Son,” he told me, smiling an untroubled smile
The air of a good-ole-boy rolling off him like valley mist
“Your problem is, you’re acting like I’m the misfit here”
When I protest, and begin to speak of ethics and cronies
Of the public trust and of honor and integrity, he stops me
“I’m not the misfit for doing what needs to be done,
for having friends in high places who look out for me
and looking out for them in return,” he says
When I ask which of us is the misfit, he jabs at me
“You are, son. All that idealism won’t do you any good
won’t put food on the table, won’t make you six figures”
I say I would rather be poor and honorable, a misfit
Than rich and corrupt, and fit in with his circle
He smiled again, that unconcerned grin widening
The smirk of someone who’s never been challenged
And knows he never will be, not in this life
“If you want to be poor, well then
you’re headed in the right direction
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a check to cash”

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