Shortfall

The screen shows a balance that looks like a temperature,

cold enough to freeze the blood.

I’m standing in aisle four,

holding a box of saltines like a prayer.

The name-brand syrup is twelve bucks,

which is three gallons of gas or a week of milk.

I put it back on the shelf.

The glass is cold.

Back home, the kitchen is a cave.

The fridge hums a low, hungry note,

guarding the single jar of pickles

under a sixty-watt glare.