This post has teeth. Dad's partial swims in its fleshy pink box. He can't wear it any more and doesn't care.
Someone rolled a grocery cart down the creekbank years ago. Much of the year it is hidden in leaves. Small trees grow through the crumpled grid. Its teeth glare at me like a fang fish. I see no way to extricate it, and don't want to break a leg trying. In January it looks the most like the angler fish that glows in the pitch blackness of the deep ocean, all jaws and bones and empty stomach.
When Sylvan Goldman invented the grocery cart he couldn't have foreseen the many places his creation would be abandoned. I hope none of them have reached the deep ocean, but I wouldn't be surprised.
© 2011 Nancy L. Ruder
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