fogged at the tram park

fogged at the tram park

blank faced machines,

nestled like eels

the shivering hiss

of electric snaking

through the air as an alarm call.

travel,

fogged at the tram park.

a morning of not knowing,

stark with fading dreams

of emeralds.

back to the place,

where a light shone strong,

for the shortest time;

now the town feels cardboard,

and emptied; like being made

to return to the scene

of a crime.

i don’t want to become

the well-dressed

white-faced man,

fatigued with tears,

riding the Sunday tram

creased and alone.

fingertips pressed to the cold glass

watching warm, wonderful

family homes pass;

hopes jarring together

like old, autumn bone.