The Shift Ends

The belt was still running

when I opened it—

my thumbs on the screen like I was holding

something alive.

Three sentences.

No preamble.

No hesitation.

The chrome caught my face,

caught the notification light,

caught me in the moment before I understood

that understanding had already happened.

I was still wearing

the plastic apron.

My hands still smelled like

the inside of the freezer,

that chemical bite,

that industrial cold

that never quite leaves the skin.

I read it again.

Same three sentences.

Same finality.

The cardboard boxes around me

were still stacked,

the conveyor belt still humming

its closing-time song,

and I was still there,

holding something dead

in my hands,

still in uniform,

still covered in the day's work,

still unable to move

because moving would mean

the shift was over,

and this was real.