Night Anchor

Night closed over the avenue. Open concrete leaves the spine vulnerable to the wind. Tucked beneath the utility box flange lay a discarded steel padlock hasp, hinged plate skewed loose and clattering against the metal wall with every passing draft. Unsecured iron invites disorder. I stepped square into the seam. Grounded my club upright into the curb joint to brace my center. Both hands seized the cold, perforated iron plate. I bore downward with locked shoulders, levering the flat strap hard under the utility box footing. The metal shrieked through road dirt, then bit rigid into the asphalt gap with a dull, solid clank. No rattle remains. I squared my back against the locked steel. The watch commences.