Forced detour boots on cold wet grit

Forced detour, boots on cold wet grit,

underneath this metal, old and split.

Girders cross, a rusted, strong design,

every bolt, a dark and greasy line.

A train goes by, a rumble deep,

shaking secrets it must keep.

And then the drip, a steady beat,

from something high, above the street.

Just water, maybe, cold and slow,

making patterns down below.

On pavement dark, it leaves its trace,

like tears on some forgotten face.

And holds the whole big mess in place.