I learned how life works 
Through musical chairs in kindergarten. 

I was always the first one out. 

The music would stop, and all would 
Turn their large, wondering eyes up 
To me, awkwardly mid-walk between two 
chairs. 

I’m out, I thought. But why? I could feel  
The rage and embarrassment begin to boil over. 
Perhaps I was not fast enough 
Or maybe I just simply couldn’t anticipate
My teacher’s next move?

There’s not enough chairs! I bawled,
And they laughed.
That’s the point, they said, 
And I sat down at my desk, dejected.

I watched as they circled, like vultures
The carcasses of the chairs,
The chairs which were spaced out unevenly,
I realized, so that more chairs were in the middles than the sides. 

It’s on purpose, of course.
The game won’t work if everyone has enough.
So I might labor to produce
Ever-more comfortable chairs
Which become thrones just for
The chance to buy a small wooden stool.

And it’s all too often
That my classmates mistake effect for cause.
My friend developed an odd addiction for comfortable shoes
To cope with the blisters and calluses
That come with a life of constant standing.

Then they’d point to the shoes
And blame those for my friend’s status.

Your ability to take a seat in the game is irrelevant
If your father owns a chair factory.

And none of the above will ever happen to you
If your daddy’s rich.