Orange on cracked asphalt

Orange on cracked asphalt,

a lone cone leans slightly,

a burnt-out streetlamp’s dull eye blinking down.

It’s the color of warning,

of no-entry and stop signs,

but here, it waits,

forgotten like a faded flag

raised for no one.

Dust coats its chipped ribs,

a crown of quiet defiance

in the empty lot where nothing moves.

I pass it slow,

its stubborn upright silhouette

more alive than the silence

that hums through broken glass

and cracked concrete.

A little beacon, small and fierce,

steady where everything else fades.