The Cone That Stared Back

Bright orange in the dim-lit street,

a flare against the cracked concrete.

It leans, a sentinel misplaced,

scuffed stripes that time defaced.

Flapping soft, like warning sighs,

its shape too stubborn to disguise.

I veer, heart jerked in sudden lane,

a startled breath, a quiet pain.

That cone — it watched, it did not blink,

a stubborn question on the brink.

The wind pulls, the city groans,

I almost hit the thing that owns

This broken curb, this half-lit night,

a glaring pulse of fractured light.