Clear the Grate

Concrete bike rack served its time, but morning boots were marching too thick along the curb. I scrambled low along the gutter and ducked into the shadow behind a heavy cast-iron storm sewer hood. A flattened, rusted tin soda cap was wedged standing straight up in the asphalt seam right at my feet, glinting like an alarm in the morning glare. I didn't skirt around it. I dropped my boot straight onto the edge, snapped it loose with a sharp kick, and shoved the scrap deep under the iron intake lip. Planted my shell against the cool cast iron. Street is roaring, but my post is locked down.