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Click hereA cold night in November,
Erin Mills Town Centre,
Is where I am tonight.
Sitting all alone.
The food court is empty.
The vendors sit gently,
Taking stock of their wares.
Only four hours left.
Four hours till closing time;
Only minutes left to look outside
Counting the seconds that divide –
Me from my lonely closing shift.
Finally five, the place comes alive
As if under a spell.
The order screen rings, awful ding,
Warning of coming disaster.
Food to prepare, not eat,
Cooking all that good meat,
For four hours solid;
Man, what a workout.
Finished at last, despite
Fast talking customers,
I point to them and say:
Sorry, it’s nine bud.
I like this one, too. I like the fishy poem better. Both poems were mentioned on literotica's poetry forum in the new poems review thread.