The pen had no give

The pen had no give.

I had to press the blue ink into the page

until my thumb went white at the nail.

Three more years of this ceiling, this light.

I set the keys down on the radiator.

The mail has grown into a thick, square brick

that no one else is going to sort.

It sits there, absorbing the heat.

There is no gold star for the laundry.

No one is standing in the doorway

waiting to tell me the shift is over

or that I have earned the right to sleep.