The Promotion

I’m on hold with a man named Dave

about six dollars I don’t owe.

It’s a strange and quiet kind of grave

where the grass refuses to grow.

I found a photo from twenty-two

with a face that I barely recall.

I thought I’d be someone remarkably new,

not leaning against this wall.

The mail is a tower on the radiator,

damp and starting to curl.

I’ll deal with the heating bill later

in this grey and heavy world.