Degrees of Debt

The water is gray and losing its heat,

I’m shaking the glass for a sign of defeat.

If the silver climbs up to a hundred and one,

I can sleep through the shift and the rising sun.

The thermometer tastes like a coin on my tongue,

bitter and cold where the mercury’s hung.

I stare at the mold on the edge of the plastic,

the cost of a sick day is getting drastic.