Tamar wasn’t having it

'Name?'
Was the first and last thing
he said to me.
I answered.
And as I began to offer more,
he turned and got to work.
My schedule was out of order.
Stopping mid week to 
pick up groceries
was humbling.
Time is never regained
once lost.
Sunday I was distracted.
I missed items.
So, here I am;
at a new store,
a Wednesday interloper,
with a new person.
I guess, I am the
new person too.
Tamar stopped suddenly
and looked out over
an adjacent field.
The parking lot butted up against 
a promised expansion 
of some store 
currently in the plaza.
It was puddled and 
strewn with broken things; 
fencing, floes of Styrofoam,
patches of grass,
shattered adolescent
tree trunks.
In the distance,
a hypertensive highway 
teemed with commuters.
The dull crashing of crates 
snapped my attention back 
to task.
Tamar was already in motion,
returning to the depot.
At the warehouse door
he threw one more
glance over his shoulder 
at the chaotic field,
shook his head, 
and entered.