A Year of Poems – Day 16

Sleep pulls at my sleeve like an insistent beggar.
I brush him off day after day, but each morning
the tug continues. As the week goes on his eyes
turn to my wallet and his other hand gropes for
my leg. I kick coldly. Then straightening my clothes
I stop to buy coffee and wash him from my mind.
Begging is a poor thing. He shall have nothing from me.
My money will only be spent on useful things,
not wasted on a man who has achieved nothing
and cries softly as I carry on with my life.
I will not be made less by tying myself to
someone else. I am enough. I am no poor man.

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