Bent Sentinel

The fire hydrant leans

like it’s had one too many knocks,

a crooked sentinel

worn raw beneath chipped red paint.

The night truck caught it sideways,

scraping iron beneath rust,

and left it off-balance,

standing crooked against cracked concrete.

It waits, bent but stubborn,

a scar on the sidewalk,

with a valve loose enough

for a whisper of water,

and a shout of the city’s refusal

to stand straight when the world

knocks it down again,

its red paint peeling,

its heart still hammering

against the cold.