Orange Obstacle

Kicked it, didn't mean to.

Just sitting there, a bright orange

blot on the grey street, in the bike lane,

where it shouldn't be.

Scuffed plastic, faded by the sun,

leans a little, like it's tired.

It's supposed to mean something,

a warning, a detour, a careful note.

But it's just trash now, blocking nothing

important, a plastic pyramid

of forgotten intent. Nobody cares

if you swerve around it.

It holds its ground, though, this stupid thing.

Bright, in the way. A little defiance

in its leaning, saying, 'I'm still here,'

even if you wish it wasn't.