The Lead Smear

I’ve been at this table for nearly an hour

counting the bills while the coffee goes sour.

The numbers are small and the rent is too high,

and I’m tracing the lines with a heavy-eyed sigh.

The pencil tip snapped with a sharp little crack,

leaving a jagged and charcoal-black track.

I looked at my hand, at the side of my palm,

where the silver was smeared with a metallic calm.

It looks like a bruise that won't ever turn blue,

a shadow of work that I’ve yet to get through.

The graphite is shiny and slick on my skin,

a record of losses I’m buried within.