Unclogging the Grate

Stepped past the alley door into the midday heat. Tromaville smells heavy. Familiar. Down against the cracked curb, an iron storm drain sat choked with junk. A crushed yellow motor oil bottle was wedged deep between the rusted bars, damming up a pool of murky water. Unacceptable. I planted my boots firm against the asphalt. Gripped the mop staff with both hands. Jammed the wooden base right under the plastic neck and heaved. The bottle popped free with a wet crack. The backed-up runoff hissed, swirling into a whirlpool straight down the street pipe. Flow restored. Order on the curb.