I missed my turn

I missed my turn.

There was an orange cup lid

spinning in three inches of brown water

under the streetlight on my block—

slow, the way something moves

when it has run out of anywhere to go.

I stood there.

I know how that sounds.

I was wet. It was ten-thirty.

The lid kept turning

without urgency,

without going anywhere,

without seeming to need

to be somewhere else.

I stood there until I felt ridiculous.

Then I stood there a little longer.