Painted Lady

You take so much for granted,
Not the first time you'll hear those words.
With that $200 Gucci bag
And those snakeskin's heels,
Embroidered with Tahitian pearls.
You drive a Mercedes-Benz
And complain about the gasoline price.
You dine in exquisite bistros
And fail to leave a tip.
You order around assistants like slaves,
And never utter a thank-you.
And yet you mourn
For what you don’t have.
But what do you have?
Love?
Happiness?
Someone to call mine?
Neighbors complain
About the materialistic freak-next-door.
Flashing an emerald ring one morning,
And a diamond the next.
But the smug, better-than-you look
Is forever etched onto your
Painted lips.
But they frown so deeply
Every time you feel the empty space
Between your finger.
Thinking of what could have been.