The Red Light

There's a lens above the junction,

a lens on every square,

one trained on the memorial,

one facing the one across,

so even they are watched.

The red light —

it means the thing is working.

It means: rehearse your innocence

in case of later judges.

The man across the landing

said one true thing in public.

Two cars, no lights, past midnight.

By sunrise he was luggage.

The red light —

there's nobody behind it,

which somehow watches harder:

we warden our own faces.

By entering this area

you consent to be an image.

Your image may be kept

longer than you are.

"He held the lift for anyone."

The red light —

they wiped him from the footage,

frame by careful frame.

The footage doesn't hold him now.

We do.