The female cashier has youthful eyes,
but there are bags underneath them,
I guess she’s tired.
The tube lights on the ceiling are blinding my eyes,
I really don’t know what I’m doing here at the middle of the night.
The cans of soda are standing in a broken refrigerator,
the windows of this 7-eleven are stained with dirty fingerprints.
The clock’s hitting half past one.
I’m still here and the cashier isn’t done with her night shift yet.
Ilse Dekker Poetry 