I told her about the hallway and the water

I told her about the hallway and the water

and she just blinked and asked

if I’d finished the inventory for Tuesday.

The feeling doesn't translate.

It just sits in the throat like a dry pill.

I keep pulling these receipts from my coat,

scribbled with phrases I can't even read.

The pen skips on the thermal paper,

the ink running out in the cold,

leaving nothing but a dented white line

where the meaning was supposed to be.