Trolley

It was the trolley
that whizzed in my
mind, uphill.
But impossibly so -
to stand our buffet -
encompassing cartons
of food, daring a spatula
to embark on down
the steep crevasse.

Sitting down was
a rice container,
pools of water near
the banks to
defy fog racing with
my neighbor, fellow
traveler, who
forces their tires
to idle in darkness.

I can make the mist
sunny, hot, as it drenches
tobacco white
cartons, tan, beige cylinders -
conduits really
for this train - no
screeching but obtuse
angles that dare me
to leap.

I grazed these streets
as a professional -
streetwise this concrete
was not hard to
bargain with for a slice
of happiness.
Gone is the fog,
personally rebuking
this trifle of electric
brakes.

It is sunny.
Yes. Happiness is
enough for a street
sign so gripping,
my hand - so
Olympic that a trial
will defy gravity -
to train for this would
not be fair or lovely.
It's free to trust brakes
wielded by the pen -
and silence.

© 2013 Larry Ingram