Poetry

The Check

There is something blessedly comforting
In the check that comes at the end of a meal.
True, it is one you must pay; its inevitability
Absolute.

        Yet even so,
        With all its monetary requirements,
        There it still sits.

Never a flutter
        of anger,
Never a cloud
        of concealed hate.

The bill has no soul, much like that
    which satisfies it.

        The check never changes-
                it rarely surprises.

Rather, it waits,
    Peacefully dozing,
                Until settled and one leaves.

Yes, there is a comfort
        In that which never changes,
                Even if it costs.