The blue plus sign is a blunt instrument

The blue plus sign is a blunt instrument.

I’m staring at it in the Shell station,

while a trucker bangs on the door

demanding his turn with the sink.

I lay the plastic on a damp paper towel.

The pharmacy receipt in my pocket

is a list of things I can't have:

the rent, the vitamins, the quiet.

My stomach is already a heavy vault.

I think about the generic brand,

the chalky pills I'll have to swallow,

and how the math never quite settles

in favor of the one who is waiting.