As the day collapses into the warm hands of night,
I lie in awe, aware of the presence
and the 77k effect.
The tendrils of my brain have overworked
themselves in budgeting,
fixing a kobo in each puzzle hole
created by demand and expectation.
This heatwave melts every hope tied
to a child whose fatherland has refused to serve or save him —
beaten into incognito.
The joy of giving three hearty cheers
is subdued by a grumbling stomach,
its warning signs echoing.
My thoughts bubble in reverse motion,
like the wave of a child beaten by fate and faith.
This heat kills every courage to look
beyond the horizon,
fixated on an hourglass as it drips
into tiny pieces of 77k.
Choked by expectations,
my troubles become an echo of others’ troubles.
Budgeting in a Heatwave
