The Leaning Pole

When I was just a leaning pole,
There were those with nagging wives,
And squalling children with maws to feed.
There were pretty women, painted red, with
Petty problems.
Men in beds who couldn't sleep, and men with beds of brickwork.
And each of them found comfort in the certainty that was
The Leaning Pole.

When I was just a leaning pole,
The men would lean with all their weight
And women issued their demands too, daintily,
But with the burdens that emotions lend.
Neither ever thought to ask just how much it took,
How much, exactly, would it take—
For a Leaning Pole to break?

I used to be a leaning pole,
The thickest, hardest, certainty I felt
Was just enough to comfort wayward passersby
Of trifling petty problems.
But now I am a leaned-on pole with splinters
From an eroded once-tough skin.
And they stopped leaning.

Some still pass by with lukewarm thoughts
Of when there was promise by this stretching road.
Of times when
Men in beds who couldn't sleep, and men with beds of brickwork
Simply had a place to lean.
From time to time a few now mutter,
How much, exactly, did it take—
For My Leaning Pole to break?