A Column

It stays, resting
where some drunk men
knocked it down, kicking and breaking
their feet on it, shattered in three
oblong ends. You can still see
the steel rod, jutting
from where it was anchored once,
a kind of leash, driven straight
through, split in the spill
of stones. The ants crawl over it,
picking the cloudy flutes
full of dirt for crumbs. An acorn
drops and black exoskeletons
scatter, startled into shadows.