Dead End Loop

The GPS had a glitch, or maybe

it was just me, tired, driving blind

past rows of identical doors.

Each street sign a clone.

Left, then right, then a circle

back to the same beige mailbox,

the same plastic flamingo

tilted, one leg in the air, broken,

like it was trying to escape

the perfect green lawn.

My headlights cut through the dark

revealing nothing new, just

another curve, another blank stare

from a window. How many times

do you have to turn around

before you admit you're not going

anywhere different?