I have a hope,

A feeling so specific it can't be named

The shape is a border

Of its definition.

When my employer owes me a check,

Or two,

There is an anger more accurate than

The fruit of frustration.

This well cooked and repeated hatred

Grows more fragrant with each day the pay period

Has lapsed,

Until the vision of passing a check across the counter fucks off

To make way for a waking dream-

Thumb raw shoving yet another cartridge into its cradle.

And then I remember the pennies I can scrape from my IRS

'Here you go'.

I look at my callendar and give myself a few more days

To stay pissed.