Store Credit

Forty minutes of my life

are worth exactly eighty dollars.

The woman behind the glass

has eyes like flat stones,

uninterested in the box

or the way the sensors

kept hitting the same radiator.

I tried to peel the label off.

It fought back.

Now there’s a white wound

of torn paper and dry glue

where my name used to be.

I take the receipt

and walk past the new models,

carrying the ghost of a clean floor

back to the parking lot.