He pushes a tired
old creaky grocery cart
to a coming storm.
Basket near bare, he thread-thin
needs most his apointed rounds.*
- (I’ve seen few so tall and so thin and waling so slow and pushing so old a long-out-of-date creaky and small grocery cart, not seen in any nearby store in decades, the metal wheels floppy or wobbly at best, giving both point and counter; as he shuffle-steps behind each race of wheels, rickety-ing his way up the street as stormclouds gather. Where is he going, will he beat the storm back. What two items are those in his cart. A jacket? A canvas sack? Who knows. He does, though. And he determinedly makes his way across the street, around the corner and into myth.)