Straining the Month

The canister is a hollow tin drum

holding the dust of a paycheck yet to come.

I found a scrap of something muslin in the box

where I keep the spare buttons and the mismatched socks.

I stretch it tight over the rim of the mug,

a white flag for the caffeine I need like a drug.

The hot water hits and the fabric turns dark,

a muddy, permanent brown, a scorched-earth mark.

The weave starts to widen, letting the grit through,

until the cup is full of a bitter, black brew

that tastes like the four days left in the week

and the silence of a kitchen where the pipes always leak.