Cast Iron Sentinel

It’s been bolted to this square of concrete

since before I learned how to lie.

A squat, red plug on the artery of the street,

watching the taxis and the pigeons go by.

I stopped today to see the damage—

five layers of paint chipped away at the base,

a history of seasons it managed to manage

while the sun tried to rub out its face.

There’s a glimpse of an old, sickly yellow

peeking out from a gash in the red,

like a bruise on a heavy, metallic fellow

who has heard every word that we've said.

A beagle drags its owner to the spot,

sniffing the iron with a desperate focus,

while the hydrant holds everything it’s got

under the heat of a blooming locust.