Lone Trolley, Centre Stage
Standing beneath a streetlight in the company of moths and a lone shopping cart, I listen to the sound of late evening traffic. The store is just closed; the last of the shoppers scurry to their cars, eager to be gone. Inside the workers bumble through their last-minute chores—sweeping, cashing out, locking down the registers.
Everybody has someplace to go. Everybody has someplace to be. The people driving down Addington Street. The late shoppers with their white plastic amniotic shopping sacks. The weary workers. Everybody is moving in a certain direction. Everybody but me and the moths. And the shopping cart.
I’ll wait until the lot is empty. Then I’ll push the cart as fast as it’ll go, as fast as my aged legs will allow, and I’ll hop on back and ride like I used to as a child. Me and the rattle-wheeled cart, through the empty parking lot, over and over until I’m tired enough to sleep. Only then will I return the cart to the streetlight, where the moths will still be patiently waiting.
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