Even after we spent our passions so recklessly the night before
on singing and smiling and making love,
writing blank checks for desire
emptying our pockets for each other,
I wake up to more of you.
More coins between the cushions
more wealthy aunts leaving us their fortunes.
Some nights I know we’ll lose the house
we’ve spent so much.
I wake up hoping we have one last dollar
to keep the debtors away.
But we must be printing the stuff,
because there is always more,
always more of you.