Dead End Loop

The asphalt curled,

a perfect circle,

familiar and wrong.

No turn-off,

just the same ten houses,

same brick, same trim,

my old friend's driveway,

empty now,

the hoop still leaning

at a tired angle,

net long gone.

A child’s red scooter,

tipped on its side

in the grass near the curb,

waited for a rider

who wouldn't come.

I drove the loop again,

slow,

past the same front doors,

past the silent windows,

feeling the hum

of the engine,

a trap in my chest.

Nowhere to go but back.