Inventory

The lights go out in blocks of twelve,

leaving the off-brand oats in the dark.

A teenager pauses to reach for a shelf,

his face under-lit by a fluorescent spark.

I’m standing in cereal, holding a box,

while the mop bucket squeaks on the tile.

The cashier’s expression is harder than rocks,

counting down every remaining mile.

She drags a bag of salt over the glass,

the scanner let out a tired, flat beep.

She’s waiting for the last of the losers to pass

so she can go home to the laundry and sleep.