The Third Shift

The radiator hisses through the peeling paint,

a sound like a secret, tired and faint.

Beside the dumpster, the crib is a ghost,

a skeleton waiting for a vanishing host.

Three minutes of waiting on a plastic stick,

the clock on the wall gives a rhythmic tick.

A blue line appears, sharp and thin,

like a supermarket scanner checking me in.

A price on the screen that I can't afford,

a debt in the blood, a strike on the board.