The Miser

The Miser

Money is his god
and as he touches it
in frenzied motion,
maddened, scurrying,
like a squirrel gathering nuts...

And for the hundredth
time he counts and recounts
the stacks of paper and runs
his hands across the neatly
stacked rows of coins, shining,
golden hue'd idols, listening
he peers out the window,
hears a shout and curses,
now he must start his
precious count again....

and he laughs the laugh
of the miser

and sits in the cold house

alone...

Lynn West
(c) 2010