Local

The Q train shudders to a halt between stations.

We all stare at the dark walls of the tunnel

until the light hits the embankment.

There, in the gravel and the oily sludge,

a red pump sits like a flare.

The buckle is rusted, catching the soot-filtered sun.

Someone left their balance in the ditch

and kept walking on one foot

through the humid, heavy air.