The Comma

The balance in the app is a long, cold street

with a comma like a pothole at my feet.

I waited three years for this specific digit

now I stand in aisle four and start to fidget.

I hold the jar of olives, glass and brine

ten dollars for a fruit that isn't mine.

I could buy the whole shelf and not feel the dent

but I miss the sharp panic of making the rent.

It sits in the basket, a small, heavy weight

a prize for a man who arrived far too late.

The safety is real, but the air is quite thin

when you finally win and find nothing within.