Clocking Out

The manager turned the heavy key

and the deadbolt slid into place.

I’m smelling like cardboard and frozen pea

and the sweat on my tired face.

The phone in my pocket gave a small buzz,

a blue light in the damp of the dark.

It told me the end of what we was

with a cold and a digital spark.

I’m standing here in a stained-up vest

with the text glowing bright on the screen.

A hollowed-out ache in the center of chest

and a world that is quiet and mean.