Structural Integrity

The heat in this apartment is a physical weight,

and when the guy on the phone asked for my credit card

to fix a car I haven't owned since the divorce,

something in my chest just finally gave up.

I hung up and looked at the alarm clock on the floor,

that cheap black plastic box that ticks like a pulse,

and I brought my boot down until the casing snapped.

I thought I’d feel better, but now the spring is out,

poking through the wreckage like a jagged, white rib,

and the stress marks on the plastic are the only thing

I’ve actually managed to finish all week.

I’m standing in the kitchen with the lights turned off,

listening to the refrigerator hum.