Worn Upholstery

I was raised with worn upholstery
And so I am not 
A part of that class 
Which appreciates new things.
I wish it were different at times
But it is what it is.
Once in a while
My comfortable soul
Beguiles itself
Into believing 
That there is a virtue
In my poverty 
But there is not,
No more 
Than there is virtue
In your wealth.
It is a mistake to believe 
In that kind of goodness.
In former lives, perhaps,
I envied you your leather
But not any more.
I rest deep in my old things
and breath the sweet mediocrity
Which contents itself
With the old.
It sounds sad
When I put it that way.
But it is true.
Thank you.
Thank you for letting me be.
We are not so different
You and I,
Both bound by the familiar
Both resting in that thing
Which most comforts 
Our afflictions.
But then again,
Don't put it past me 
To stay in your hotel
Or to relish in your richness
Of a June.
But home for me 
Will always be 
In that thing
Which you discard. 
And if you ever tire of fretting
Over your expensive cache
Feel free to rest 
Upon my couch
It will not fret 
Or show the scratch
Like the leather
One at home.

I wonder if it's true 
This thing I've said to you.
Is it ok, that I don't care
To prosper like the masses?
I hope so,
For I am tired of pretending.