Last Call, Dairy

The lights were already halved in produce,

the kind of dim that makes the apples seem

like something you'd be sorry for selecting.

I had a cart that didn't add to a theme—

crackers, a jar of something, the wrong milk.

Ten minutes, said the speaker in the ceiling.

The mop bucket came squeaking toward me, yellow

wheels on tile, that particular feeling

of being a problem someone has to manage.

I stood in front of the yogurt and I thought

about nothing, specifically—just cold air

on my hands, and all the sleep I hadn't got.

I put a yogurt in. I didn't want it.

I wheeled toward checkout through the dying hum.

The man with the mop didn't acknowledge me.

I was the last thing standing between him and done.