Why The Pylon?

Orange.

            Standing guard o’er roughly one square meter.

Orange,

            in its bright and tangeriny hue.

Orange

            enough to bring some green through someone’s peepers.

            If you hit that cone there’s something wrong with you.

Useless.

            Staunchly monitoring vacant space.

Useless.

            If you hit that cone, you’d just hit light of day.

Useless.

            No pothole, grate or project in that place.

            The nearest hole’s a million miles away.

Pity.

            I cannot spy just what that cone’s in aid of.

Pity

            the pylon and the one who placed it there.

Pity.

            I dare not think just what their noodle’s made of.

            The pylon’s urgent warning. Nothing’s there.

What can be done?

With such bureaucracy.

Who can we ask?

To move the cone if there’s no project there.

What can be done?

In this democracy.

Who lost that standard in the thoroughfare?

After all…

I’m just a man.

To foibles I am prone.

I’m just a man

searching for what’s best because I care.

I’m just a man

obsessed about a cone.

I mean, what the hell’s that pylon doing there?