Off the Track

The sky is the color of a fresh bruise,

that deep, Sunday purple that means

the weekend is folding its tent.

The lot is a desert of painted white lines.

A cart catches the wind and begins to limp

toward the storm drain, one wheel

locked in a permanent, frantic stutter.

It sounds like a metal cage rattling for help.

I find a list stuck to the wire mesh,

Milk, Eggs, Bleach, the ink

running into the gray rainwater.

Somebody forgot what they were looking for.