Tonya’s Cart

The wheels on Tonya’s cart aren’t in sync.
Doesn’t matter.
The gravel path between the glaring street lights makes the cart,
bulging with stretched-out sweaters, a greasy sleeping bag,
and the canvas tarp she uses as a tent when there is still “real estate” beneath the bridge,
go all wonky.

Tonya fingers the soft pink blanket on top. Rattles the bag of marbles – good for trade.
Perhaps someone has milk.
But the knife – cold and swift – ends all ideas of trade.
She bleeds out while a man, not heeding the mewl of the baby, flees with Tonya’s cart.

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