Actuarial

The microwave clock is a sharp, blue pulse

counting the seconds of a Tuesday morning

I am too tired to start.

I spent an hour on hold with a voice from Omaha

explaining why the hail damage is my own fault,

while the generic sponges sit on the counter,

three for a dollar and rough as a brick.

I thought there would be more sweeping gestures,

more rooms with high ceilings and heavy doors.

Instead, it’s just the thirty-cent difference

between the brand I want and the one I can afford,

and the way the linoleum feels cold

through the holes in my socks.