Poem for the Elevador da Gloria, Lisbon

Leaving the depot
in the custard-yellow
funicular
was startling at first:

a sort of elevated
pneumatic push
soundless so far as
you could possibly

tell
apart from the creak
of the wooden frame
and the rattle of

the glass

but you soon
learned the distance
it took you

all the years you were there

and how
when a cable is
correctly tensioned
so the wheels
roll freely on the
running rail

you can make
a poem sing.