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
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