Self-Portrait, With Five Hours of Sleep

The miser hoards his best coins
in a drawstring bag. He hides them

under his mattress, he takes them out
to spit on them and shine them, count

them into piles. But I, I break a few
more hours from the mostly depleted day

to feed to one more bristling task. Where
does it come from, unbending hunger

wanting to be fed, this maw that’s never
satisfied until it sees me nearly spent?

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