The Arithmetic of Lack

The phone glowed blue, a digital frost,

showing the number, what I’d won, what I’d lost

these last two weeks, pushing hard, getting by.

A decent sum, if you don't really try

to make it stretch, to feed the hungry mouths

of rent and gas, and all those other droughts.

Rent's due, the fridge is bare, a lonely shelf.

Already I'm performing magic on myself,

dividing bits, subtracting from the whole,

a kind of sad, self-flagellating goal.

The balance, minus bills, a whispered curse,

is less than zero. Worse and worse.

So I stare at the screen, a small bold lie,

this number that pretends to justify

the ache in my shoulders, the clock's cold face.

It's just a starting point in a losing race.

Another two weeks, to get back here, to see

this same damned math, laughing back at me.