No Way Out

The asphalt tightens to a seam,

a perfect, useless arc.

I turned in, chasing some lost dream,

now stalled here in the dark.

A basketball hoop, rust-streaked, stands

above a child's red trike.

A mailbox leans on tired lands.

No one to turn or strike.

The engine groans, a slow reverse,

a three-point, grinding turn.

This little loop, a quiet curse,

where lessons won't unlearn.

The houses stare, identical,

each window holding light.

A private, soft confessional

in the closing of the night.