the asphalt is colder than winter glass,
the street dogs are curled near the drain,
no trucks and no yellow ambassadors pass
through the puddles of midnight rain.
and yet at the corner of central street,
high over the shuttered-down shops,
the halogen cycle continues to beat
and the red signal flickers and stops.
it turns into amber, it turns into green,
it commands an intersection of air,
maintaining the rules of an absent routine
for cars that were never quite there.
the timer chips count down forty-five ticks,
the relays click softly inside,
a faithful machine in a city of bricks
enforcing an order denied.
we build all these systems of duty and code
so stubborn they never relent,
shining green for the ghosts on an empty road
long after the travellers went.