Inventory

The misting machine gives a pressurized hiss,

spraying the kale with a lukewarm kiss.

The lights in the back go out with a clunk,

leaving the canned goods in a deep, gray funk.

I stand by the milk while the floor buffer hums,

waiting for whatever the nightshift becomes.

The conveyor belt moves in a black, rubber loop,

ready to swallow my salt and my soup.