Late-Night Cart

The lot stretched out, a concrete sea,

under a sky the color of old bruises.

Only one other car,

a single eye dead, under the stuttering halogen.

I walked the painted lines,

past the silent rows of carts,

a metal herd waiting.

And then, snagged on a rusted cage,

a faded blue balloon.

It bumped, a soft, pathetic drum,

against the bars, deflated.

Once buoyant, bright, a child's delight,

now just plastic skin,

full of nothing.

It swayed a little in the thin, cold wind,

a sad flag of what's discarded,

after the deals are done.