Haiku for the Night Shift

My sister has worked nights at the same hospital for nine years. These are for her, and for the guy at the gas station off Route 9 who says "drive safe" every single time like he actually means it. Different people, one night.

10:58 p.m.

Clock in. The day shift

yawns its way out the back door

leaving cold coffee.

11:40 p.m.

Room four wants water.

Room six wants her husband back.

I can do water.

12:30 a.m.

Empty parking lot.

My flashlight finds a raccoon.

Neither of us moves.

2:05 a.m.

Two a.m. fare says

take the long way, not ready.

I don't ask him why.

3:00 a.m.

Three a.m. hot dogs

still rolling since yesterday.

A man buys two. Brave.

3:15 a.m.

My lunch break is at

three fifteen in the morning.

Call it what you want.

3:50 a.m.

Headset. Caller says

you sound tired, are you okay?

Nobody asks that.

4:10 a.m.

Four a.m. baker,

dough rising before the town

wakes up and wants it.

4:30 a.m.

Mopping the lobby,

one shoe print, left on purpose.

Proof that I was here.

4:45 a.m.

Text from my daughter.

One moon emoji, no words.

I send back a sun.

5:20 a.m.

Sky goes dark blue, then

the color of old jeans, then

birds start up. Too soon.

7:00 a.m.

Clock out. Day shift comes

in with their wet hair and plans.

I leave them coffee.

7:40 a.m.

Foil on the windows.

The whole street leaves for work while

I whisper goodnight.