Night Bunker

Street noise died down. Needed a locked-down bunker for the night, away from stomping boots. Dropped down the concrete curb right into the dry shadow of a cast-iron drainage trough. Inside, a heavy discarded steel washer—thick as a coin, rusted orange—sat wedged vertical between two iron grate bars. Rattling with every distant vibration. Stepped right into the dirt trench. Slammed the flat curve of my hook against the metal disc. Clang. Forced it flat against the silt floor. Shoved the scrap deep into the dark crevice beneath the curb overhang. Solid iron bunk. Guarding the low ground until dawn.