The Yellow Slide, Or, The Endless Turnaround

Lost, again.

The GPS, a calm, robotic lie,

said turn left, then right, then you have arrived.

But here it is, this perfect circle,

all brick ranch houses,

each one a mirror of the last,

trimmed lawns, not a blade out of place.

It's unsettling, this sameness,

like a dream where every door

leads to the same room.

No way through, just back around,

a carousel of quiet, neat despair.

And there, at the edge of one lawn,

so bright it hurts,

a child's yellow plastic slide,

tipped over,

mud-splattered,

like some discarded promise,

or a broken joke.

It waits there, for some hand

to set it right,

to clean the mud.

But no one does.

And I just have to turn,

again,

this endless loop,

no way out but back the way I came.