I turned in a wrong turn a soft mistake

I turned in, a wrong turn, a soft mistake,

the curved asphalt a quiet, looping ache.

Identical mailboxes, a silent row,

each trimmed lawn a green, familiar show.

Three-point turn, my tires scuffed the ground,

a slow reverse, without a single sound

from any door. Just houses, facing in,

as if the world outside had never been.

A basketball hoop, rusted, tall and stark,

stood guard in one driveway, leaving its mark

of games long played, or never played at all.

Just a contained circle, waiting for a call

that might not come, a quiet, neat design,

where every end returns to its own line.