That Dog, Money

Did your father keep cash
      in a sock then slide that under
the mattress? and your mother, did she  
      keep bills in separate envelopes  
labeled food, water, light? Having lived 
      through the war, my parents knew 
the fear of losing everything, having 
      nothing but the kind of debt which has 
a habit of growing bigger while you sleep. 
      I must have formed my attitudes toward 
money from them: fear that the universe 
      could punish you for spending on frivolous
things instead of just the necessities— good  
      cheese rather than cheese spread, fruit 
rather than juice from concentrate.
      That vacation postponed for the nth
year in a row and perhaps forever, since
      the price of fuel is even more expensive
now. Our savvy friends talk about making
      their money work hard for them
while they sleep: a tool they say, used      
      well, frees you for longer stretches
you could fill with conversation, hobbies,
      or books and art. What is it worth
to work overtime without pay, catch
      only four hours of sleep a day
then fall asleep at the wheel? With every 
      paycheck, pay yourself first but set 
aside twenty percent for savings and debt 
      repayment. Clear accounts. Know 
what you have and where it goes, care for it 
      as you would an animal that remembers
its wild, fanged nature, but now will fetch,
      sit, and come when it is called.