Empty Lines

After the carts were collected,

stacked clanking in their corrals,

the last minivan pulled away,

its taillights blurring to dots.

I was the only one left.

The asphalt, still warm from the day's sun,

smelled faintly of oil and summer rain,

that specific, chemical damp.

Yellow lines,

too bright in the fading light,

stretched out, clean and empty,

leading to nothing but more space.

No cars to guide,

no doors to open or close.

Just the hum of distant highway

and my own quiet breathing.

A vast, flat canvas

waiting for another day's clutter.