Clear the gigga homie

I moved along the concrete path to the edge of the lawn where an old green park bench sat bolted into the pavement. Something caught my eye down at the rusted base flange—a strip of discarded blue painter's tape was wrapped messy and tight around the threaded anchor bolt, flapping slightly in the breeze. Cluttered nonsense. I didn't hesitate. I dropped onto my knees against the gritty concrete, dug my gloved fingers underneath the tattered edge, and ripped the stubborn tape clean off in one hard yank. Stripped bare to raw iron now. Just clean, cold metal resting solid in the sun.