After Hours at the Aquarium

When the crowds dissolve into rain-slick streets, the glass begins to breathe on its own, and mops whisper saltwater arcs across a floor still warm with footsteps.

A woman in rubber boots lifts a lantern fish to eye level, checking its silver hinge of jaw; her flashlight drifts like a moon through tanks where sleep has no eyelids.

In the shark tunnel, a man polishes handprints until each curve becomes a clear, dark river. Above him, bodies of muscle and weather turn slowly, as if reading his silence.

By dawn, buckets are stacked like small planets, and the first tram hums beyond the loading gate. The workers leave smelling of tide and bleach, carrying the night home under their nails.