The Fallen

It's been lying on its side for days,

the orange cone that's failed its job.

I walk past it in different ways,

pretending I don't notice the throb

of recognizing myself in its fate—

a thing that's supposed to warn and direct,

but now just lies there, broken and late,

no longer able to protect.

Someone drew on it in marker,

some message I'll never quite read.

The sun hits it, makes it darker,

a small failure that no one needs.

I almost stood it up today,

made it useful, made it right,

made myself believe that way

that I could fix something in sight.

But who would notice? Who would care?

The street's the same either way.

The cone lies broken in the air,

and I walk past it anyway.