The Spell for Budgeting

Like my father, I leave unopened envelopes covered in numbers and misspelled words all over my home. On the couch one reads elektrik 240. I’ve hidden one reading grossery 64/week with the coffee cups. I’m trying to arrange them like my father could before the 15 th came and went and we still had heat or running water. The spell feels different now. I don’t understand how. The kitchen table feels too practical for magic. The bathroom already filled with imaginary numbers. I refuse to use the bedroom; it’s for dreamers. Last night, I planted the dentist’s final notice among the lemon grass. Nothing grew. I broke down, called him to demand the right configuration, the placement that makes the magic sing. It went to voicemail. I must be close. The apartment is humming. There’s still room in the windows. I’m out of mail. Maybe the mailman came early. Maybe the medical bills need to make a sharper angle. Maybe the numbers are wrong. I’ll check again. Let me write it down.