Closing Time

The hum of the milk crates is the only sound,

as the lights click off and the shadows abound.

Section by section, the cereal goes dark,

leaving me standing like a question mark.

The emergency glow is a sickly kind of green,

casting a film over everything I've seen.

In the distance, the mop makes a rhythmic slap,

a wet, heavy sound like a closing trap.

I should leave before they lock the sliding glass,

but I’m waiting for the feeling of this to pass.