Access

The shift ended at six but the air stayed thick.

I unclip the plastic badge in the parking lot

and feel the snap of the clip against my chest.

The nylon cord is fraying at the edges,

turning a dull, salt-stained gray

from twelve hours of leaning over the line.

I catch my reflection in the side mirror.

A bright red welt traces the curve of my neck

where the weight of the name tag

has been sawing into the skin all day.

I throw it on the passenger seat

like a leash I finally managed to slip.