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?