It’s five and golden. The tide, fat
and swelling. Traffic is easy
like the Joker in the deck the gods
are playing. Behold, the patchwork
of tired metal and steel, floating
to its final kilometre, laden
with matchboxes on wheels, gadunk,
gadunking home. She saunters
ahead, twirling, touching the rails
tenderly, her tresses tousling
against the evening gale. He follows
in silence, no grin for the wind,
no homage for the wobbling Demerara,
but choler quickening him from behind,
possessing the pyrrhic victory and
wrapping his arms around her waist—
she overjoyed by the pleasant surprise—
as he heaves them over, onto
the wings of love taking flight,
while the rest gadunk, gadunk westside.