The Radius

The detour sign pointed me into a circle

where the houses all have the same beige face.

There is an oil stain in the center of the asphalt,

a dark, ragged star where a truck leaked its life

trying to find a way to turn around.

A kid is thumping a tennis ball against a garage,

a rhythmic, lonely sound that doesn't go anywhere.

The ball hits the wood and returns to his hand,

over and over, because the street ends in grass

and the grass ends in a fence, and there is

nowhere else for the momentum to leak out.