The Fixer's Carriage

as the bullet train thundered (with cordite stench) past we were all safe, even though we were last the displaced gasp of the near-miss shook us as our carriage stood without engine, still – a sad still bus the fixer smiled his pleasant smile and we then knew - we were safe, all the while we were saved from the inevitable crash where progress’ intent was to break and to smash our old carriage stood safe and solid and silent next to the track of the fast and the violent with comfy cracked seats covered in old green leather with jolly brass fittings and a faint smell of heather we were all safe, because we were with him but we were so few, our number so thin the rest of the train must have been wiped off the track but we wouldn't know, as we never looked back