After Hours, Aisle Four

It was 9:47 on a Tuesday,

toilet paper and a can of chickpeas,

the fluorescent lights doing their low flicker

above the shelves with all their missing pieces.

I stood in the cereal aisle too long,

reading the back of a box I wasn't buying—

fiber content, serving size, the small print—

anything to make it feel like trying.

The stock boy came around with the mop bucket,

water the color of old rain.

He worked in slow arcs around my feet

without looking up, without a name

for what I was to him. Just something

standing in the way of the clean floor.

The bucket wheels squeaked on linoleum.

I put the box back. Left the store.