To a certain extent
The miser is one to be pitied.
Grew up poor, never had any money
And now he doesn’t know
What to do with his riches.
He puts it all in one place
And watches it.
The squalor of stacks of golden coins.
He doesn’t lend it or give any away
Nor does he spend it on himself.
Dresses in unfashionable rags
Disdains the pretensions of nobility
Luxury he abhors
He drives a used Ford
He hoards it for when he may need it
Remembering what it feels like to need.
The same could be said for the lonesome boy
Who grows up to find himself
Suddenly a man, bursting at the seam
With untapped reservoirs
Of unused love