The yellow edge of the envelope

The yellow edge of the envelope

curls up like a sick leaf,

peeking from under the electric bill,

the internet, the one about the loan.

Always another form, another fee,

a number to dial, a line to wait on.

My car registration, already past due,

then property tax, a heavy thing.

It’s never just the big hits, you know?

It’s the constant drip, drip, drip

of small anxieties,

a slow flood rising up to my chin.

I used to think adulthood

was a wide-open field,

now it’s this cramped office,

fluorescent light buzzing,

and I’m just trying to keep

the papers from sliding off the desk.

The desk that is me.

And the air smells faintly

of dust and resentment.