The Remainder

The numbers on the screen are small and blue,

a tiny harvest for the work I do.

The bank took the insurance at a quarter past,

leaving me with nothing that's meant to last.

I sit with the mail and the light of the stove,

calculating the distance of the debt I wove.

The calculator clicks like a steady heart,

watching the month simply fall apart.

I open the fridge and the light is a dare,

illuminating shelves that are mostly bare.

A single brown egg rolls back to the wall,

the only thing left that hasn't started to fall.