The Ledger

The steak was seared and tasted like a nail,

a heavy iron lump upon the plate.

I sat alone and watched the evening fail,

counting the cost of the things that I hate.

My wallet holds a crisp and twenty-line,

a sharp-edged paper that can buy the room.

But wealth is just a hollow, gold design

when every penny smells of dust and gloom.

I have the numbers stacked in tidy rows,

a balanced checkbook and a steady hand.

But hunger is a thing that only grows

when nothing's left to till within the land.