Net Pay

The stub says ninety-seven after tax—

I read it twice. It's thin as a receipt.

The lamp above my desk keeps going black

for half a second, coming back, repeat.

Through the wall my parents have the tone

that isn't fighting but runs close enough—

the bill, the month, something about a loan

I don't know all the details of. The stuff

I'm not supposed to hear but do.

The textbook's still in plastic from September.

I've had this job six weeks. I already knew

how this adds up. I didn't need to remember

the math. I know the math. I've known.

The lamp blinks out. The argument goes on.