Maintenance

I found the receipt in a pocket I rarely use,

a crumpled white scrap with the price of the pack.

It’s not even a craving I’d bother to choose,

just a mechanical loop that I can’t seem to crack.

I smooth out the paper on the edge of the sink,

my hands moving with a shaky, practiced grace.

It’s a chore now, like washing or trying to think,

a tax that I pay for just taking up space.

The ink is starting to fade in the heat of the room,

leaving the total a blurred and illegible smudge.

I’m standing here waiting for the quiet to loom,

with no one but the drain and the faucet to judge.