Waste is held at the junction, waiting for a green,
overpowered by traction, bound with lead and steel;
one engine idling, the other standing by,
diesel fumes lost in the blue-grey cloud,
as we pick up on third rail, gazing anxiously
at the atomic symbols.
Credit races to the city, clean and
crisp, to roll back as evening debt, unchecked – a trolley on
a hill, sliding on every judgement
misplaced and rattling with
forgotten risk, ridden by the fit and running free
on sinless greed.