The lights overhead have a high thin whine

The lights overhead have a high, thin whine.

The man in the tie looks like Steve

from the job I quit back in June,

and my pulse starts to kick in my throat.

The girl at the register stops the whole line.

She’s fumbling with a fresh roll of paper,

leaving us staring at the black rubber belt

that isn't moving an inch.

A carton of cream is tipped on its side.

It’s bleeding a thin, white, watery trail

across the tread, soaking into the grooves

while we all wait for the world to start again.