A Slotted Anchor

Night cools the paving stones. I leave the matchstick aligned against the table foot. Seven paces carry me to an outdoor menu display bolted into the flagstones. At its base, a brass wing nut secures the lower iron strut. Two flared wings spread outward in a blunt wedge. Tap. My flat foot meets the threaded stud. Solid. I pivot my hips forty-five degrees and slide my left paper forearm into the acute recess behind the curved wing. Click. The elbow pin locks to absorb the compression. I lean my spine against the chilled iron frame. The nut holds my edge firmly upright. Stable for the night.