The only space was at the far end

The only space was at the far end.

I drove out there, which I resent

on principle. The cart. A slight bend

in its angle, facing away. Spent

or just abandoned—one wheel cocked

sideways, the frame at a diagonal.

Not tipped. Not crashed. Just parked

there, mid-push. The rational

thing: move it. I got out.

Walked it to the return. The scrape

of metal on asphalt. Without

much thought. Got back in. The shape

of the lot mostly empty. The space

where the cart had been: just asphalt.

I sat there. The painted lines. The place

itself. Nothing to exalt

or mourn. I kept returning to the angle.

The way it faced. The wheel.

The nothing I kept trying to untangle.

The slightly open feel

of the frame. The distance from the store.

I started the car.