Store Credit

The drill was too heavy, a black, plastic lung

in a box with the words in a different tongue.

I stood at the counter while the registers hummed,

and my heart in my chest was a rhythm I drummed.

You bought it to fix the shelf in the hall,

but you left before you could drill through the wall.

So I handed it over, the cord and the bit,

and watched as the clerk made a note of the fit.

The slip in my hand is a cold, blue receipt,

and the walk back to the car is a long, empty street.

I don’t want the money, I don’t want the debt,

I just want the space where the shelf hasn't set.