Grocery Store at Closing Time

Only the real ones are here at nine-fifty.

The man buying four rotisserie chickens,

not one,

four.

The woman in pajamas, focused,

navigating frozen foods like she's defusing something.

The teenager with one item

who has changed their mind three times.

We nod to each other sometimes.

Not friendship exactly.

More like: “I understand

you're also out here

doing what you have to do.”

The lights are brighter here at closing.

Everything is clearer when there's nowhere else to be.