Written by Mike Ray

In the back-alley fog of this neon-lit circus, where the suits hawk their snake oil dreams and the billboards scream “more, more, you ain’t enough,” gratitude’s just a rusty harmonica, tucked in the pocket of some forgotten bum, humming low against the roar of the grindstone.

It’s the self-interested spark in your gut, not some saintly halo, but a sly fox’s grin—whispering, “Hey, kid, you got breath in your lungs, a dry crust of bread, and that crooked smile that don’t owe nobody nothin’.”

Society’s a three-card monte game, dealers with gold teeth and empty eyes, pushing envy like cheap whiskey, resentment bubbling up from the sewer grateswhere the losers huddle, nursing their victim crowns.

But gratitude? That’s the antidote, baby, a jagged key in a lock full of rust, twisting open the door to your own damn kingdom.

Selfish as a junkyard dog guarding his bone, it chews through the chains of “they took mine,” spits out the bitterness, leaves you standing tallin the rain-slicked street, pockets empty but heart loaded.

Picture the widow in her clapboard shack, porch light flickering like a dying firefly, counting the cracks in the ceiling as blessings—each one a map to the stars she can’t buy.

Or the factory ghost, calluses thick as regret, grateful for the steam whistle’s howl at dawn, ‘cause it means another shot at the wheel, another breath before the boss man’s boot.

Underrated virtue, yeah, in this world of wolves, where the pack howls for what’s yours, not what’s given—gratitude’s the quiet blade, carving spacefor the soul to breathe, unbowed, unbroken.

Oh, the envy parade marches on, with its floats of fake fur and hollow cheers, victimhood’s the grand marshal, waving flags stitched from yesterday’s wounds. But slip gratitude under your tongue like a bitter pill,let it dissolve the poison, turn the mirrorfrom accusation to absolution.

Self-interested?

Hell yes—it’s the only interestthat pays in full, no usury from the devil’s bank.

In the carnival of complaints, it’s the sideshow sage, croaking truth through a megaphone of gravel, reminding you: the feast is in the famine, the gold in the gutter, if you got eyes to see.

So raise a glass of rainwater to the missing piece, this underrated rogue in society’s shadow play.

It don’t preach from pulpits or flash on screens, just growls from the underbelly, raw and real, antidote to the rot eating us alive.

Gratitude, you old tramp, with your patched coat and stories of storms that birthed the rainbow—teach us to claim our scrap of sky, selfish and saved, in the wreckage of want.

Amen to that, in the key of C minor, with a beat-up piano and a devil’s wink.

Text © Mike Ray