Standard Copay

She leaned forward, her cardigan soft and beige,

and told me that my anger was a gift

I just hadn't learned how to unwrap yet.

I looked at the crooked landscape on the wall,

a print of a valley where nothing ever happens,

and thought about the shut-off notice on my table.

There is no ribbon on the way my throat feels

when I count the quarters in the cup holder.

There is no celebratory paper to tear away

from the fact that I am forty dollars short

on a life that costs more than it’s worth.

She checked the clock and smiled like a nurse,

while I sat there holding my 'gift' in my lap,

heavy as a brick and twice as jagged,

waiting for the secretary to swipe my card

and tell me that we're out of time.