The Last Aisle

The sliding doors gave a heavy, mechanical sigh

letting me in to the smell of wax and cold bleach.

Ten minutes till eleven, and the lights in the back

are already clicking off, row by row.

The floor buffer is a low, vibrating growl

somewhere near the dairy, making the tiles shine.

I don't look at the guy pushing it;

he's got a watch to catch and a bus to find.

I passed a plastic bin in the produce section,

holding one bruised grapefruit, skin like leather.

It sat there under the dying hum of the fridge,

waiting for the morning or the trash, whichever.