Left There

The paint is wrong — house yellow, not city yellow —

and it's peeling in long strips

like something deciding, slowly,

that it's done.

I've been passing it every morning

for months now.

I've never decided anything about it

except that it's wrong.

This morning there was a coffee cup on top.

Paper. Lid on.

A brown ring on the lid

from sitting there long enough

to leave a mark.

I almost took a photo.

I thought about who I'd send it to.

I couldn't think of anyone

who would understand why it mattered.

So I kept walking.

And it's evening now

and I'm still thinking about the cup,

the ring on the lid,

whoever left it there

and didn't come back for it.