The Shakes

The collector hung up after thirty-four calls,

leaving me shaking inside of these walls.

I’m trying to type out a note to the guy

who owns the front door and the roof and the sky.

But my thumb is a traitor, a rhythmic machine,

tapping a code on the edge of the screen.

It’s a twitch and a flutter, a nervous release,

long after the shouting has finally ceased.

The adrenaline’s leaving, it’s cold and it’s fast,

wondering how long the paycheck will last.

Just a fine, steady tremor, a physical lie,

asking for something that money can't buy.