It does not grace me so

This morning my eyes open again. A field of topaz sits fuzzy over my face. I wait some while for sleep to return. It does not grace me so. When I rise and lift the tarp, my shopping cart is gone. I was found. They found out what I collected. Their time was short and so they acted. One or more of these passers-by saw it. But if I ask they will not tell me. I must move. If I hide I can still expose them. I must start over. Avoid the roads. They would not walk, they are rich. They use cars. I walk so I go where they cannot. Behind a phone pole I stand stiff until I hear no engines. I rush to the next pole and then a news box. They want to destroy me, but in this I am no different than the passers-by. Only I know. I reach the beach park and its dark cool banyan trees. A root is my pillow. Greater means is greater harm. Still I miss my cart.