The Scale of the Thing

I found the drawing in a box of old grades,

a mansion with a mailbox the size of a car.

I thought the world was made of sharp blades

and winning was just a matter of how far.

Now I’m staring at a plumbing bill

and a balance that looks like a losing score.

There’s a strange, cold kind of thrill

in realizing the ceiling is just a floor.

The steam rises off the plastic tray

while a parking ticket sits on the glass.

Adulthood isn't the lead in a play;

it’s just waiting for the hunger to pass.