Zeroes at the End

The stub is folded into a sharp square,

sitting on the table by the unpaid mail.

I run a thumb over the net pay line

until the ink begins to smear and fail.

It’s not a number that likes the rent,

or the oil light flickering on the dash.

I’m doing long division on a napkin

trying to stretch the remaining cash.

I stare at the 'Total' until my eyes ache,

smudging the digits into a grey blur.

There isn't enough water in the well

to keep things moving like they were.