No Parking

The block is a puzzle with no missing space,

except for the spot near this iron-red face.

A squat little guard with its arms out wide,

watching the street with a sense of pride.

The paint is all chipped and the nozzle is rusted,

a city-owned fixture that can’t be adjusted.

At its base is a pool of oily, green sludge,

where the pigeons sit and the tires won't budge.

I’ve circled four times and I’m starting to heat,

cursing this hydrant and the whole damn street.

It sits there and mocks me, solid and still,

while I’m looking for a gap and a lack of a bill.