The receipt is a white flag under the wiper

The receipt is a white flag under the wiper,

telling the story of a midnight buyer.

Twelve dollars for coffee and frozen peas,

while the parking lot wind shakes the hollow trees.

I sat in the dark for an hour or more,

watching the light from the grocery store.

But then the click of the belt in the slot

anchored me back to the whole damn lot.

That metallic snap, that small plastic bite,

locking me into the rest of the night.

My thumb hits the button, the red is all worn,

scuffed by the times I felt tired and torn.