Articulations

A shifting swarm of starlings stretches and stirs over the city.
Below, a young man covers the side of a train in spray paint,
smearing colours to achieve gradients, willing the minutes
to bend so he can finish his outlines before the carriage moves.

Later, the freshly painted train emerges from a tunnel
and takes its long metallic drone through town, mixing
with hubbub from certain ill-lit fast-food places,
those which tend to stay open longer than one would expect.

The dull thud of wheels on uneven rails syncs for a moment with the clang
of cans on artificial marble tabletops, percussion solos from a pizza place
next to an all-night pharmacy. Two people stand outside, not really eating,
not really speaking, but very civilised, ambiable, even.

They lean against the glass under the yellow awning. The boy’s eyes
are on the train. It moves a little fast for him to read the writing.
The girl, slightly detached, her make-up almost fine, focuses
on traffic lights, frowning each time the orange flashes:

she feels the timing’s off, but who’s to say the car horns and barking dogs
cannot make sense, to other ears? She’d be the first one to admit that
when it comes to tempo, timing, phrasing, she still has much to learn.
Above, the writer stands on a viaduct, wiping his hands.

The black curve of the overpass makes traffic slur.