Three shopping carts were home for a week
filled with giveaways and throwaways
from the supermarket behind it
with a stack atop each basket
of boxes whose emptiness had been crushed
out of them, and on the pavement every morning
a new ring of candle wax
from another night spent at the last stop
before the stars. And one bright morning
they are gone. No trace remains. Not a single
paper cup or the wrapping
from a candy bar. No written note to say
who slept here, no last will or testament, no
manifesto to stir lost hearts to action,
not even a footprint to suggest
the chosen direction away. The bus halts. The bus
departs. Sleep. Awaken. All on schedule.
Until the heavens open
and make space for one more soul
to cast his lot in with the fates
and climb a moonbeam
carrying nothing but his name.
