Nine Forty-Seven, Produce

The floor buffer has been running

since before I got here,

no one holding it,

the cord disappearing back

into the dark where aisle seven

ends and the lights don't.

I have one item.

Milk, two percent, getting warmer.

The kid at the endcap

is doing something

with the granola bars—

third time I've watched him

square them up—

and he won't look over here

and I know what that is.

I know exactly what that is.

The store wants to be empty.

I can feel it wanting,

the way a room wants you gone

when everyone is too polite

to say so,

the chairs all pointed

at the door.

I put the basket down.

I pick it up again.

The buffer turns at the far wall,

slow and dumb and patient,

and I think: that machine

doesn't know what time it is,

doesn't know it's running

for no one,

doesn't know how that feels—

actually.

Never mind.