The Miser

there’s a dullness inside
the smooth forehead
where a hidden miser
stashes seeds of fresh
ideas

ignores as dead
his dozen smiling
grandchildren

mutters stale
grayness
to himself in
shaded afternoon's
encapsulated
building

boasts of
agoraphobic
piled high
wrinkled cash

unviewed dvd’s
pirated from
unwary libraries

to foreign ghosts
in the boarded
floral parlor

as the stars in night’s
black sky
no longer shine
their golden twinkle

no, in his wild greed
and blind blue hoarding,
he sees stars not burst
nor twinkle..