Closing Shift Blues

Midnight, again.

The doors locked, cold air still thick

with plastic wrap and stale bread.

My phone buzzed in the pocket of my apron,

smelling of freezer burn.

A blue flicker on the steel sink.

'It's not working out.'

Two lines. Not even a proper goodbye.

Just flat words,

under the drone of the compressors.

The last of the cardboard, flattened,

still stank of rain and rot.

I peeled off my gloves,

my hands raw, numb.

He didn't even wait for morning.