The microwave clock says 204

The microwave clock says 2:04.

It’s the only green light in a kitchen

that smells like dish soap and old mail.

I found a receipt for a ham on rye,

sold in a city I can't quite map anymore.

I am the only person who knows

that I ate that sandwich on a Tuesday.

A moth hits the window screen—thud—

a soft, desperate knock against the mesh.

What am I supposed to do with this pulse?

I’m a collection of receipts and carbon,

standing on a linoleum floor,

waiting for the sun to make it official.