There is something in the nature of possessions
That leads others to believe they are evidence of obsessions,
They are the means of creating impressions,
In our own minds and in the minds of fantasy peers
Whose imagined, envious expressions
Bring great pleasure
As we like to see ourselves
As we believe jealous others see us.
But there’s more than that to the items we treasure
They are not merely the solid, physical means by which we provoke
Gasps of astonishment and praise from imaginary friends,
Whose green eyed emotions we hope to stoke
Nor are they solely the method by which we measure
Our worth, they aren’t just the means to shallow ends
Demonstrating our superiority over ordinary folk,
Nor evidence of some neurotic psychology
Rooted in chemistry or biology.
No, I think our collections and selections
And by implication our rejections
Are not weird manifestations of Freudian predilections,
Not much to do with childhood, or sexual repressions,
No, the obvious truth is still true,
They are maps and signposts and directions
Which as to our values and interests
Attempt to give some sort of clue.
