Closing Shift

The midnight air is sharp with diesel fumes.

I’m standing by the dumpster, smelling like

the frozen peas and broken, plastic brooms,

and wet cardboard left out beside the pike.

My hands are numb from pulling pallets down,

the freezer burn still stinging at the wrist.

I checked the screen and saw the little noun

that crossed my name right off your winter list.

'We're done,' you wrote. It’s clean as a receipt.

A damp box buckles in the rising rain.

I'm just a body standing on the street,

wrapped in a cold and a grocery-store stain.