Take a capital V,
balance it on a lower-case l,
rivet the pieces together,
and you have created Y,
an outdoor sculpture
made of polished steel,
that gleams in the noonday sun,
and beckons children
to climb its two slick branches.

Y makes tripodal creations
look anemic. Y towers over
the Earth, casting on the lawn
its skinny shadows that move
as if mimicking a drunken W.
No other letter is so susceptible
to toppling over as is Y.
The heavy V outweighs
the straight-up l, 2 to 1.
Gale-force winds can twist
it on its axis. It can be uprooted.

Even when it stands tall,
Y often comes in last,
at the end of words,
a fractured exclamation point
missing its downward dot.
Y waves its arms for attention,
but it clings to the lower-case l
slowly, coolly, gently, lonely.

Y has only Z to talk to,
a self-cloning, open-ended
triangle. Y never knows which
end is up. No matter.

Outdoors, Y continually invites
purposeful play, a standing
funnel of fun for all.

It gleams in the noonday sun.
It beckons children to climb
its two slick branches. That's
why Y rises up, never alone.