The Old Man at the Corner
The Old Man at the Corner
I never meant to stop
for the fire hydrant—
that squat, green sentinel
rooted at the edge of the block.
But there it was,
flaking its history in layers:
a little silver showing through,
then a patch of yellow,
and now its latest coat of green—
like an old man
too sentimental to throw away
his previous wardrobes.
At his feet,
a scatter of leaves
dressed in the same palette—
yellow, green, brown—
as if conspiring to match
his changing moods.
Most days, we don’t see him.
He just stands there,
part of the landscape,
holding his post through the years—
sun, rain, frost, repeat—
so steady we forget
he’s aging too.
Only up close
does he tell his story—
the rust,
the softened edges,
the quiet erosion
of all that was once new.
Even the steadfast
are brushed by time.
Even the immovable
slowly, gently change.