Spent

The sun hangs low,
and they keep taking
like it’s the way of the world.
They take the stories you tell,
the air you breathe,
the patience you give.

They take your time
like it’s nothing more than a coin,
flip it in the air,
spend it without care,
and never notice
how the pocket empties.
Here they come again—
hands open, eyes wide,
expecting something.

They take without asking,
never seeing the weight
on the shoulders
of the ones who have given
more than they know.
And yet the world turns,
as it always does,
and they keep taking,
as they always will.

Now and then,
you wish they’d stop for a moment,
look around,
see what’s been offered
and give something back
before the well runs dry.