Playback

The deli is bright and it smells like old meat.

I’m standing in aisle four at two in the morning,

watching my ghost on the screen near the street,

a grainy reminder that offers no warning.

The red light is blinking on top of the fridge,

reflecting in glass over rows of the grape.

The man at the counter is crossing a bridge

in a game on his phone while I wait on the tape.