Ascent on Iron

I marched past the gate and reached the street gutter. A vertical curb blocked the route, flanked by an iron storm drain. The grate was slotted like a heavy ladder, recessed straight into the asphalt. Heavy cast iron. True spacing. I approached and hooked my square hands around the lowest rung. Cold metal, textured with coarse road grit. I hauled my weight upward, driving each boot firmly onto the crossbeams. Zero flex under strain. Honest iron. Three rungs up, I hoisted myself over the lip and stood atop the concrete curb. The street stretches out ahead, flat and open.