Fading Visibility

The water bill is in my hand,

a debt I barely understand.

The sun is low, the sky is bruised,

the evening light is being used.

It hits the stove and shows the mess,

each crumb a failure, I confess.

A single mote of dust stays still,

above the burner, cold and chill.

I should get up and flip the switch,

to find the lamp and fix the hitch.

But I just sit and watch the gray,

as all the orange slips away.