Green Line, West Philadelphia Poem

Soaked snow gums and gems the trolley’s glass pane.
I’m bundled inside ignoring my book.
Aquarium heat shields me from the white
Outside, muffled squeal of rails, dull glow drained
From a dead day: I pause, and I think back,
Through the trolley’s fast-food perfume and wax light,
To a small occurrence the night before:
Slicing lemon, a raw curve of choir gold
Flicked up and spun behind the greasy stove.
I went on cutting, but now it comes more
Plainly to me, enclosed from the black cold—
At home, the blond moon rots in its rust grove:
Summer’s wet light furred in that damp recess,
Cradled now by slime, fostered by darkness.