The Bypass

It’s lying on its side inside a puddle by the curb,

a plastic orange beacon that has lost its will to stand.

The gray and oily water ripples, quiet and superb,

while the morning traffic lunges for the open patch of land.

The reflective tape is peeling off the heavy rubber base,

a jagged strip of silver that is caked in city grit.

Nobody stops to set it up or put it back in place;

we just find a way to drive around the jagged heart of it.

I’m idling in the middle of a lane that doesn't move,

watching people merge and pivot with a practiced, easy grace.

I’m stuck inside the rhythm of a deep and narrow groove,

waiting for a signal just to leave this hollow place.