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.