The Last Platform

The metal gate rolled down with a jagged snap,

a sound that says the day is finally done.

I’m leaning on a pillar, checking a map

I’ve memorized since I was twenty-one.

A yellow mop bucket squeaks across the floor,

and the worker stacks the chairs in piles of four.

He doesn't ask me why I’m still inside,

just leaves a trail of bleach for me to stride.

The vending machine hums a low, electric note,

reflecting in a spill of cherry soda on the tile.

I pull the collar tighter on my coat

and check my watch and try to force a smile.