Clocking Out

The metal gate is rattled shut and locked.

My hands are numb from the frozen peas and the bags of ice,

and my skin smells like the inside of a walk-in,

that sharp, metallic scent of freezer burn and wet cardboard.

I’m standing on the loading dock where the light is yellow.

I pull the phone out to check the time and find the text,

four lines of blue ink on a white screen

telling me that we’ve run out of ways to make it work.

The glow hits a puddle of slush by my boots,

shimmering over pallet splinters and a crushed soda can.

I’m too tired to even drop the phone.

I just stand there in the 11:15 air,

wondering if the smell of the warehouse

will ever wash off my neck.