The Fifth

The crossing gate is a striped, red bar.

The rain is drumming on the roof of the car.

The train is a mile of heavy, black steel.

I’m gripping the top of the steering wheel.

The fifth one hangs on the side of the grip.

Scarred from the time the hinge let slip.

The smallest knuckle, the crookedest bone,

doing no work on its own.