The Rent

The mailbox is empty except for a flyer.

I’m standing on the clover and the weeds.

The grass is cool and biting at my heels,

tucking its dampness into the seams.

I need six hundred by the first of the month.

The math is a knot I can’t seem to undo.

The ground feels solid and honest and green

while I’m calculating what I’m supposed to do.

I dig my toes into the soft, black dirt.

It’s a cheap way to feel like I’m still here.

The rent is a shadow that grows on the wall

but the blades of the grass are sharp and clear.