Lead

The taxes are spread on the table like grief,

and the hours are long and the patience is brief.

I’m dragging my palm through the numbers and debt,

leaving a trail of a dark, silver sweat.

The side of my pinky is polished and gray,

wearing the work of a miserable day.

I wiped off the smudge on a napkin of white,

a metallic stain in the middle of night.