Twelve Dollars for Peace

The bank alert came through at half-past ten,

between the gas and eggs I had to buy.

It’s that meditation app I used back when

I thought the chest pain meant I’d likely die.

I haven't opened it in months or more,

but fifteen dollars left my pocket anyway.

It’s a tax on who I thought I was before

I learned to just get through a normal day.

I’m paying for a calm I never found,

a digital voice to tell me how to breathe.

I watch the balance sinking toward the ground

while I stand here in the checkout line and seethe.