The Tram on Grey Rails

The tram passes through the city I know but cannot name. It moves slow, dragging a smell of wet concrete and pennies. I hold the glass of water; it keeps the level above the lip, the water weight absolute, defying gravity. A man across the street wears a yellow coat, his shoulder carrying an ache that does not belong to him. The ceiling above the platform lowers a small patch of weather, a cloud no bigger than a dinner plate, smelling of crushed anise. I lift the glass, tilting it to my ear. The water makes a sound of ticking. The man in yellow shifts his weight, and the ache deepens.