It sits a wire skeleton

It sits, a wire skeleton,

half-buried in a snowdrift

where the plowed piles meet the curb.

One wheel frozen,

spun sideways in the dirty ice.

Its basket holds a single,

crumpled paper bag,

a faint grease stain

like a forgotten map.

Too far from home,

too far from any other cart.

It looks like a confession

left in plain sight,

or a responsibility

simply set down and walked away from,

the tracks already filled with new snow.