Draft in the author’s style. This poem was written for Poet of Wall Street to sit beside the author’s own readings, and is waiting for the author’s review. The commentary is a working draft too.
It came inside an envelope as thin as autumn air,
My first paycheck from the city, and I held it like a prayer.
I thought of shiny sneakers and a dinner by the bay,
Of all the things a pocket full of wages buys today.
But my father sat beside me with his tea and quiet eyes,
And he told me that the wisest never spend all their supplies.
Pay yourself first, he whispered, put a little seed aside,
For a tree grows out of pennies that are planted, not denied.
So I split it into portions like a baker splits the bread,
Some for rent and some for giving, and some saved for years ahead.
It was not a mighty fortune and it did not buy a throne,
But it taught me that a paycheck is a seed that must be sown.
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Commentary
A first wage arrives, full of temptations. A father's quiet advice turns it into the speaker's first lesson in saving.
The first paycheck comes “inside an envelope as thin as autumn air,” and the speaker holds it “like a prayer.” Sneakers and “a dinner by the bay” come to mind, but the father says “the wisest never spend all their supplies.”
His advice is to “pay yourself first” and “put a little seed aside.” The speaker splits the money “like a baker splits the bread,” with some for rent, some for giving and some “saved for years ahead.” The lesson: “a paycheck is a seed that must be sown.”