Last Call at the Terminal

The vending machine hums a low B-flat

against the hollow of my chest.

I watched the red lights of the 12:05

shrink into the tunnel’s throat

and didn't even reach for my bag.

The janitor drags a yellow bucket,

the mop smelling of cheap lemon and grit.

I check my phone like I’m waiting

for a call that is actually coming.

The screech of metal chairs being stacked

four-high in the corner

is the only conversation left.

I’ll sit here until they lock the glass

because the silence in my kitchen

is heavier than this bench.