The Night Shift Feed

The man in the lobby sees me at three,

unlocking the door with a fumbling key.

He’s seen me come home with a smeared, black eye,

and he’s seen me stare at the ceiling and cry.

The red light is mounted high in the corner,

observing my life like a silent mourner.

I caught my reflection in the fish-eye lens,

slumped like a bag that the garbage man sends.

We never speak, but he knows my gait,

and how many boxes I carry of late.