There's the fancy sneakered man who parks
at Trader Joe's and does not adequately push
his empty shopping cart back into its return,
but instead abandons it, haphazardly diagonal,
estranged from all its fellows, listing awkwardly.
I've seen it all before but now I'm pressed for time
and peeved, so snark is in ascendancy. I transform
to grand inquisitor, ascribing to him every petty sin:
he clearly does not shut his cabinets or dishwasher, click
the door latch fast or tuck his t-shirts into drawers to keep
them flat. In fact, he left them catching on the wooden rim,
oblivious to his own dresser's lack of closure. He can't be
bothered into bringing his own bags, recycling his plastics
or composting-in fact, he drives a gas guzzler. Yet look:
he hurries back to where he's parked his SUV, opening
his wasteful one-time bag to offer an old women
waiting, patient in the car, the topmost
chocolate peanut butter cup.
Cart re:turn by Alison Hurwitz | Poetry Fabric Box
$15.00Price
