Four quarters, my daily wage,
each spent in turn,
or given away,
the commerce of life,
the economics of death.
The purchased joys
and the moments I bought,
fill my pockets with vapor;
bartering, bargaining, and buying up the present,
while indebting myself to the future.
Budgeted regrets and the savings of hope,
numbers that crush more than crunch;
"Give my pay to that beggar!" I impulsively shout,
"and my goods to the angry, old widow."
It feels rich to be poor.
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