Envy

At first I’d love his riches, but soon I’d hate it so
that there were no limitations in the places I could go.
Venice, perhaps for luncheon, and Rome to take a dip
in the Trevi fountain, and then I’d have to zip
(in my private jet, you know) off to Katmandu
to have my favorite holy man tell me what to do,
because I’m bored with all these riches. I find they’re running me.
It seems a waste of money to just sit and let it be.
It’s piling up by minutes and I’ve so much yet to spend
that getting rid of money just never seems to end.
So I guess I really have to say that Carlos Slim is not
the person I have envy towards. I crave no golden pot.

I think about another who is clever, pert and slim.
Her face and figure beautiful—attractive to each “him.”
Men voted her the girl they’d most like growing up next door—
the one they’d like to run into in a convenience store.
She’d never be the one who is left sitting at a party
looking just intelligent, albeit sort of arty,
while other women beautiful have circles all around them,
wine glasses filled each sip they take, refreshed up to the brim.
I must admit I might enjoy the beauty and the fame,
but I wouldn’t want the hordes that show up when they hear her name.
And so I’ll let her keep her looks, the parties and the fun.
I would not choose to live the life of Jennifer Aniston.

There is another actress, though, whom many must admire.
Intelligent, attractive, lit by internal fire.
With all her heart, she slips into each role that she is given.
Once she finds a part she wants, it seems that she is driven
to do the best that she can do to represent that life.
Then afterwards she slips back into mother, friend and wife.
Her home life seems most balanced. There is no scandal there.
The press seems to leave her alone, as though they do not care
because the drama she presents is always on the screen.
At other times it seems that she prefers to go unseen.
But because she does so well at it, her identity she’ll keep.
I would not take the life she made away from Meryl Streep.

I’d like to save the world but I couldn’t take the stress
of all the catty comments about my hair or dress.
No matter what diplomacy I practice or what skill
I display in my negotiating, still that bitter pill
of having what I look like be the thing that is reported
instead of how I handled or debated or comported!
I wouldn’t want the limelight directed toward my kid–
where she went to school, how she looked or what she did.
I wouldn’t want those whispers of my husband’s private life.
Or why I am still with him—the compliant suffering wife.
You’ve probably guessed the next one I wouldn’t want to be,
for although I do admire her, I could not be Hillary!

I could go through the alphabet of people I admire.
Aesop and Boccacio, Chaucer, Dylan, Eyre.
But none of them had perfect lives that I would want to steal.
Some of them had to face the plague, and others are not real!
So though I may have envy for some writer’s craft and mind,
her life might not accomodate a person of my kind.
Her husband might not like me, even placed within her skin.
Some essence of her missing from the body I’m now in.
Or I might find I miss myself—my dogs, my friends, my house.
All the things I chose to leave when I chose to espouse
this life change that I really didn’t think out very clearly,
and now I find I wake up every morning feeling queerly.

I can’t have those pancakes if I am now Jennifer.
And if I’m Carlos Slim, my former friends would call me sir.
If I were Hillary, I fear my talents would be nil;
and then the worst of it is that I’d have to sleep with Bill!
If I were Meryl Streep, I’d want to befriend the old me
to see what I was really like before I became she.
I’d journey off to Mexico, but what is my excuse
for seeking out this writer who’s a bit of a recluse?
And when I went to meet her, just who would she now be?
Would the woman that I visit still be her or us or me?
If so, would we be happy or would I/she be real pissed
for my stealing her whole life, for I’m sure it would be missed.

I know that there are others I might envy for awhile
before I slipped into their shoes and limped along a mile,
but I really feel the reason that I’m not already them
is because I am not worthy to even touch their hem.
I’m not good enough to be anyone but me.
Now wait!! Before you think that I am humble as can be,
I have to say that none of them are worthy enough to
slip into my skin or slip one foot into my shoe.
For all of us are unique in one particular way
and I have a feeling  you know what I’m going to say.
Each of us is perfect—the best one on the shelf
at simply doing one thing—at being our best self!