Corner Post

The red paint on the hydrant

is chipped, like a broken nail.

Someone sprayed a yellow X there once,

faded, telling no tale.

It just stands, a squat sentinel,

heavy cap, sealed tight.

Dog pee stains the concrete base,

day and night.

All this pressure, waiting,

a heart of iron, coiled.

What if the fire never comes?

What if all that's kept is spoiled?

It's just there. Always there.

A promise rusting slow.

And what if its moment passed?

What if it will never flow?