Stocking Up

The fluorescent hum of the dairy aisle

is the only thing with a pulse at 2 AM.

I reached into my pocket for my keys

and pulled out a ghost instead.

It’s your hand, tilting hard to the right,

demanding heavy cream and lemons.

I haven't taken mine white in months.

The cursive 's' in 'sugar' is a small,

dying bird, wings collapsed against the pulp.

I should throw it in the bin by the carts,

next to the discarded circulars and gum.

But I’m still standing here,

holding a menu for a house

that’s been empty since July.