The Wayward Cart

Another list, another run,

the weekly chore beneath the sun.

I pull in, park, and there it sits,

a wire frame in fits and bits.

Leaning hard against the pole,

miles from any shopper's goal.

One wheel, rusted, seized and stuck,

a piece of sad, discarded luck.

Half-buried in the asphalt crack,

where weeds push up and fight their track.

It stands alone, no plastic token,

just metal bent, its purpose broken.

I grab my own, still rolling free,

and push it toward the store, you see.

But something in that static frame

just whispers back my own damn name.