Closing aisle

Fluorescent lights flicker

like tired eyelids

above empty shelves

and cans in lonely rows.

The clock’s digits stare

9:55

like a judge’s cold sentence.

Last customers shuffle

carts scraping floor,

a slow exodus from the plastic aisles.

The cashier calls out,

five minutes left

and the urgency bursts

like a tired balloon.

I watch the space

where the bright life once hummed,

a hollow shell,

the end of a day swallowed

quiet and quick.