The Number

They deposited one thousand two hundred and forty-seven

and sixty-three cents.

I stared at the number like it might rise

from the screen and give me heaven

or at least enough sense

to believe I could survive the month.

But rent is nine hundred.

That leaves me a hundred and forty-seven

and the knowledge that no amount of math

will make this work the way it's supposed to.

Groceries eighty, gas sixty, phone's fifty,

water thirty, electric might be forty.

My hands are already gritty

with the calculating, already so sorry

for wanting to eat

and keep the lights on

in the same seven days.

I circle the total and see

I've left myself almost nothing

for the rest of the month.

Nothing

to fix what breaks,

to live like someone who doesn't

spend half their paycheck

just on rent alone.

The numbers don't lie.

The numbers don't try

to make it seem okay.

They just show me another day

where I'm calculating survival

and coming up short,

where I know exactly how close

I am to breaking,

where the math is reliable

and the answer is always

no.