Last Call for Perishables

The automatic doors are tired.

They stutter open to let me in,

into the glare of the long white tubes

and the smell of industrial bleach.

I am the only one in the bread aisle.

The worker with the mop doesn't look up,

just pushes the gray water in circles

while the registers start their final count.

Under the soles of my thin shoes,

the milk case vibrates with a low fever.

I stand here holding a carton of eggs,

feeling like a ghost in a bright, cold box

before they turn the lights out on me.