Freezer Burn Text

The blue-white glare of the time clock, a digital lie,

stretched across my palm, where the text message sat.

My fingers, still stiff, numb from the freezer's sigh,

stacked dinners, cheap cuts. And that was that.

He couldn't even call. The scent of bleach

and stale cardboard, clinging to my clothes,

the cold that burrowed, beyond my reach,

deeper than the flimsy uniform knows.

I smelled like frozen peas, and bad decisions,

the faint, sweet rot of fruit at the bottom of a bin.

The hum of the store's closing, sad revisions

of a life I thought I was living in.

Then the click of the lock, the automatic doors sliding.

Out into the night, the phone still warm.

And the taste of something cheap, forever hiding

in my mouth, a quiet, bitter storm.