Dave Bonta's "Wealth" is a few short lines about someone who has almost nothing, and the title makes that sparseness feel pointed. The speaker lists what remains: no one to turn to, a shed to sleep in, and a wit that nobody ever heard. That last detail stings most. It suggests a mind with something to offer that never found a listener. The poem ends on "this street," which implies the speaker is now living outside, or very close to it.
The opening phrase, "for some past sin," hints that the speaker sees this situation as a punishment, though the poem never says what the sin was. That gap leaves us unsure whether the guilt is real or just a way of explaining bad luck. The mood is bare and quietly bitter. There's no shouting or self-pity, only a flat inventory. The irony of "Wealth" sits underneath it all: the speaker has been reduced to a handful of facts, and the poem asks us to look at them.