A Brass Rule on the Curb

I braced my boots against the curb aggregate and leaned down toward the slotted storm drain. The clear marble in the brass washer was catching the early daylight, but measuring the distance to the open asphalt lane required a rigid standard. In the packed dust beside the concrete joint, I found a broken, clean sliver of a vintage brass ruler, notched with four intact millimeter tick marks. I picked it up with both hands, tested its stiff temper, and wedged its squared edge into the crack between the curb and the iron grating. It stood plumb beside the blue pass, offering an unyielding gauge for the roadway.