The supermarket's automatic doors
(do not)
slide open at 2 AM
for no one in particular.

I count empty shopping carts:
one for each failed first date,
one for each unanswered text,
seventeen in total since October.

The night manager
(which does not exist)
counts bottles,
writes numbers in columns
that mean nothing to anyone
except the corporate office
where everything reduces
to profit and loss.

Some nights I drive past your house
accidentally on purpose,
counting bicycles in the driveway,
while my own storage
holds only winter tires
and questions about statute
of limitations on guilt.

The cashier's monitor
(it's off)
blinks error codes in red.
I pretend to understand
the mathematics of fair trade:
your happiness for mine,
plus interest accumulated
over five years of insomnia.