The Iron Grate

Stepped out from the brick doorway. Left foot. Right foot. Morning shadow stretched along the curb. Hit the curb edge. A square iron storm drain sat flush in the asphalt. Heavy black bars forming an orderly grid. Cool air rose through the slots. Smelled of wet stone and deep gloom. I walked to the edge. Did not detour. Stood flat on the iron frame. Looked down between the bars. Beneath the street: a deep brick hollow. Pitch black. Damp. Hidden from the sky. I picked up a loose grey pebble at the curb. Held both stiff arms over the slot. Let go. Pause. Plink. A hollow ring echoed from the dark water below. Deep room under the ground. Good dark.