Luxury

Awakened by death prowling the halls
I note neither of us is dead yet
And so I reach over and touch you lightly,
Not for conversation but
Like a miser in his vault
To tally the unfair excess of
Our love,

Which we forget or pretend not to have
When the poverty of egonomics
Makes us act like assholes or strangers
Or rats on a wheel treading each moment
As a clone of the last.

I gloat, well knowing
This treasure will fade,
That prowler finally invade,
And leave one of us
To join awhile the poor millions who,
Longing for luxury like this,
Only imagine they reach over to someone
Who loves them and sleeps assured
They are likewise loved.