The Math of Loneliness

The ATM spat out a receipt that looked right,

a balance that should have made my chest stop aching.

I went to the store in the middle of the night

and bought a glass lamp, my own hands shaking

from the sheer, stupid weight of the box.

It’s heavy and clear, a $300 sphere

that sits on the nightstand near my dirty socks,

looking lonely and expensive and weird.

I reached into my pocket and felt the bill,

a fifty, crisp as a fresh winter leaf.

It has a texture that’s meant to fulfill

some promise of safety, some respite from grief.

But the fluorescent lights in the kitchen still hum

with the same hollow frequency they did before.

I’m just a person with a much larger sum

of nothing at all, standing near the door.