The Lot at Dusk

I watched her from my car—

the shopping cart rolling backward, far

enough that it would hit the bumper.

It did. A small collision. She didn't shudder.

She didn't stop. She didn't turn around.

Just got in her car without a sound,

without checking, without caring

that she'd dented something. Staring

straight ahead, she backed out slow,

navigated the lot, let the damage go

like it was nothing. Like a dent

didn't matter. Like the small event

was already forgotten. The cart

sat there. The woman had no part

in its abandonment. It was just

a thing she'd left. A thing, a bust

of order, a small disaster

in a parking lot that went faster

than she could keep up with.

And I sat there, thinking of it,

the casual cruelty of not caring,

of hitting something and not staring

at what you've done, of walking away

from the small wreck, the small display

of damage. The sun was going down.

The cart sat in its spot, unwound,

a small monument to the fact

that no one was keeping track.

She was gone. The dent stayed.

The cart stayed. The lot decayed

into evening, and I was still there,

watching, angry, the only one aware.