Net

Direct deposit, six fifty-three a.m.

I knew the number. Opened it to see

the thing confirmed—the final hem

of two weeks: what they leave for me

after taxes, the health plan's bite,

the rounding that rounds the wrong way.

The landlord called on Tuesday night.

I haven't listened. I can weigh

the general tenor of what he wants.

I stood in socks on the cold floor.

Did the math. The same old stunts—

ran it twice, came out the same as before.

Put the phone face-down. Stood there.

The voicemail. The balance.

The window going gray. The air

in the kitchen. The silence.