The Syntax of Interest

The teller’s teeth are a row of bleached keys.

She’s talking in numbers, in floating degrees,

while I watch the ants of the serif font crawl

toward the soft edge of my coming downfall.

My car’s in the lot with a light on the dash,

an orange reminder of a shortage of cash.

I nod at the jargon like I’m part of the plot,

diversifying nothing but the panic I’ve got.