Late Shift Transaction

The light is too white, a hospital glare

humming through the aisles of dented cans.

I’m holding a box of gray mashed potatoes

while the clock near the exit clicks toward eleven.

The girl at the register hasn't blinked in a minute.

She’s watching the door, her hand hovering

near the bottle of blue floor cleaner someone left

halfway down the belt.

We are both just waiting for the click

of the lock, the finality of the dark.