Night Shift

Past the flickering bulb of the street light,
into the soft-lit gleam of the ice cream shop
stands a being of flesh.
Shoulders curling into the chest,
back aching for freedom.
The dirt-covered mop held steadily
by the arm of flesh is being used as an object to lean on.

The tile floor remains uncleaned;
sprinkles of sticky napkins crumpled
by small fingers of children
and sun-melted ice cream
stay silent to go unnoticed.

One eye opens and chaos arises.
Amongst the stillness of it all,
the being of flesh begins to unfurl from its embryonic state,
and within minutes the sticky napkins depart from the floor,
melted ice cream absorbs into moppy water.

The soft-lit gleam of the ice scream shop
is now pitch black,
an orb of movement is detected by the door.
Some jangling of keys later,
the being of flesh saunters to the parking lot.
The street light flickers one last time
as if it was performing an encore,
and black out.
A straining, slightly irritated groan arises.

It’s 12 am and I just want to get home.