Arrears

The woman on the phone has a voice like glass,

explaining why the claim just wouldn’t pass.

My coffee’s got a film of oil on the top,

I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Then the mail slot clicks and the floorboards groan

under a stack of debt I have to own.

The 'Check Engine' light is a steady, orange stare

bleeding out into the driveway’s evening air.

I’m counting out the nickels in the tray,

measuring the hours left inside the day.

The weight isn’t a mountain or a stone,

it’s just the sound of being home alone.