Seconds

The email chime is a small, sharp blade.

I had three minutes to be human.

Then the bar slipped.

It hit the industrial weave, that low-pile

gray that hides the salt from everyone's boots.

I looked at the clock.

The debt in my stomach was louder than the germs.

I pinched the oats, shook off the grit,

and swallowed the lint of a forty-hour week.