The Beached Cart

The last customer finally

pulled away, gravel crunching.

Another shift bled out,

my feet heavy, heart lighter

by just a fraction.

And then I saw it.

On the scrubby patch past the lot's edge,

where weeds held their breath

against the diesel fumes.

An overturned cart,

one wheel spinning slow,

like a broken propeller,

catching the low sun.

Its basket gaping, empty,

a mouth of forgotten purpose.

Metal ribs to the sky,

a chrome beetle,

dead on its back.

Too tired to right it,

too sad to leave it there,

I just stood, watching

the light drain out of the spokes.

Left it for someone else's tomorrow.

Or the wind.