A Matchstick Handrail

Leaving the upturned green bottle cap behind on the first step, I scouted the descent toward the next flight. The concrete lip dropped off sheer, but right along the corner joint lay a spent wooden matchstick, charred black at one tip. It leaned diagonally across the crumbly mortar seam like an improvised timber ramp. I lined up my front wheels carefully, testing the timber's give with my bumper before rolling one tire onto the slender shaft. The wood held steady under my axle's weight. I crept down the slant inch by inch, tires gripping the raw wood grain until my bumper settled onto the smooth second step below.