The Hourly Rate

The wipers are struggling with the sleet

while I sit in the lot of the medical park.

I’m looking at a handout on the passenger seat,

a list of 'Joy Goals' meant to light up the dark.

She told me my grief was just mismanaged hours,

like I could put my sister in a color-coded bin.

She talked about the growth of emotional powers

while I felt the air in the room getting thin.

I gripped my ballpoint until the cheap ink bled,

a blue stain spreading through the 'Efficiency' box.

There are some things that should never be said

by a person who thinks a heart is just a set of locks.