Royalty Run

A vending light tattoos our cheeks orange,
I swallow change and promise fewer chips, less salt;
a foreman nods, initials flood the ledger,
the carbon copy freckles through the receipt;
we slap our pockets, shuffle toward the gate,
a tremor in the tracks—here comes the train.

Past sidings full of day’s rehearsals—train
windows repeat the warehouse stripes in orange;
a beep, a swing, the narrow teeth of gate,
tongues learn to budget thirst against the salt;
a strip of numbers shines through each receipt,
thin rain smears ink, a lick of ozone—ledger.

At noon the boss unpegs a travel ledger,
the fan above clicks like a slow train;
we tally lunches; staples bite receipt—brief heat,
someone cracks fruit; its oil stings nicked knuckles—orange,
and laughter blooms, then settles back to salt,
workworn and steady, clocking through the gate.

Evening unhooks, widens at the gate;
I hear the turnstiles mutter at the ledger,
the night-shift cooks unload their crates of salt
and steam that smells of harbour and of train.
A corner shop spills traffic-cone orange;
I fold the day, its corners neat—receipt.

Let every ledger square its lines with salt,
let each receipt unlatch a stubborn gate—
I’ll keep the dawn’s orange and make that train.