The Paperwork of Existing

I’m on hold with a man named Gary from Sanitation

while my frozen burrito turns clammy on the plate.

I used to dream of a stage, or a coast, or a nation,

not arguing over a missed pickup rate.

The dishwasher hums its wet, rhythmic song,

a domestic success that I bought with my time.

I’ve spent forty minutes just proving them wrong

over six dollars extra and a nickel and dime.

There’s a stack of white mail on the laminate top,

reminders of taxes and the insurance for teeth.

The soaring has ended; I’ve come to a stop

with the bills on the surface and the sink underneath.