Pauper’s Purse

I am poor and I owe
an incalculable debt
to the world— I have taken
more than my share of what
it has given, and still 
it does not begrudge another
chance to secure my so-called
fortune. I owe a debt to my
friends, who puzzle, together
with me, the ledger figures
in our shared accounting of 
this life. On one side, I am
still short of a complete
reckoning, a clearing of 
the slate. On the other, 
the hourglass sheds its
crystals at a faster rate.
It has a narrow waist 
that reminds me of a certain 
ache that falls somewhere 
between needing more and 
wanting less, that at some 
point it will start its motion 
all over again, not out 
of meanness or spite
but because that is its 
nature. And I am rich with
a surplus, always, of feeling.
There is so much, I often
don’t know what to do with it;
and other times, it saves me
from thinking I am completely 
bereft, empty as a pauper’s purse.