Under Pressure

It’s been painted so many times

the bolts have lost their hex-head bite.

Layers of safety-yellow, thick and slow,

have dripped down the iron sides

and hardened into blunt, rounded tears.

A dog pauses to read the history of the block

in the scent of the peeling base,

where the red from a decade ago

shows through a crack like an old wound.

It stands there, squat and ignored,

holding back the weight of the city’s pipes.

Just a heavy, silent cast-iron heart

waiting for the one day the street catches fire

and someone finally brings a wrench

to let the pressure out.