What We Kick At

Three years and I never saw it,

the hydrant at the corner where

I stop for the light and wait.

Just part of the sidewalk's fate—

something to step around, not see.

Then a kid in muddy sneakers,

waiting for something, anything,

sent his shoe against the metal

and the sound came back to settle

like something waking up,

like the hydrant had enough.

Fresh paint that morning—

bright orange, bright warning.

The dent he made didn't stay,

but the sound was here to stay.

I notice it now. The way the light

catches the edge where the paint's worn tight.

The way I slow down each time,

half-hoping to hear the chime.

We kick at the things that don't bend.

We mark them. We make them ours

by leaving small dents in the hours,

small marks that nobody repairs.

The kid's gone. I don't know where.

But the hydrant remembers him.

And now I can't stop seeing

all the other small, solid things

we've been kicking at for years.