The Slow Drip

The plastic bags cut deep, a nasty slice.

Each gallon milk, a heavy, cold device.

My forehead pricked, a tiny, sudden sting.

A bead began its slow, inevitable swing.

It broke its hold, a cold, insistent tear,

not born of sorrow, but a rising fear

that groceries outweigh the meager pay.

It traced a path, then quickly ran away,

down cheek, then jaw, a tiny, salty thread.

This body's work, it leaves me half-dead,

and smelling faintly, damp and sour, like brine.

My own particular, unpleasant sign.

Just this wet sheen, a film upon my skin.

Another day, another battle, deep within.