The Perimeter

There is a plastic cone outside.

It’s faded orange, caked in salt.

It doesn’t have a place to hide

or anyone to call its fault.

I leave the dishes in the sink

to watch it hold the empty street.

It doesn't have to act or think,

or worry who it has to meet.

It guards a hole that isn't there.

It stands its ground against the wind.

I wish I had a heavy glare

and skin that didn't feel so thinned.