Temporary Landmarks

The orange plastic leans into the street,

shrugging off the Tuesday rain and heat.

Someone crowned it with a Miller Lite,

a glass hat left over from a Friday night.

The condensation beads inside the brown,

a little fog for a king without a town.

It’s a warning that nobody’s going to heed,

blocking a hole that doesn't really bleed.

I laughed because it’s stupid and it’s there,

holding up a bottle like a solemn prayer.