Before I Went In

I cut the engine. Sat. The lot

was wet, the dusk half-gone.

A cart had drifted near the spot

where the corral ends. The wan

fluorescent light from the store.

A woman came across the asphalt,

pushed the cart into the row, and more

or less vanished inside. The salt

air from somewhere. My hands

on the wheel. I had a list.

I know the layout. The stands

of baskets near the door. I missed

nothing by sitting there.

Thirty minutes. A minivan

backed out. The wet-lot glare.

Not a crisis. Not a plan

collapsing. Just the long

thirty minutes. The corral.

The entrance. Nothing wrong

exactly. That's all.

I went in. Got the things. Drove home

through the dark. The store's light

small in the rearview. Chrome

of the door handle. Night.