The Number

Three hundred forty-seven dollars, eighty-two cents—

that's what sits on the screen where I need it to say more.

The coffee is four fifty. I watch the barista make it,

watch her hands move like this is easy,

like coffee costs less than it does,

like the money in my account means something

other than not enough.

I order it anyway.

What's another four fifty when there's already a gap

between what I need this week and what I have?

The numbers don't lie, but they don't make sense either.

How did it get so small so fast?

Where did it go? The usual places: rent,

the thing that broke, the thing that always breaks,

the way living costs more than living should.

I hold the cup and it's warm and I don't want to think

about what else I won't be able to afford,

what small thing will become impossible

because of this number, this specific number

that's been haunting me since I saw it.

Three hundred forty-seven dollars, eighty-two cents.

It's not enough for anything.

It's not even enough for the idea of enough.