There’s a red light on the washing machine
To show that the lid is shut tight
That very same reds’ on the light of the train
That circled the tree Christmas night.

The engine shot smoke puffs up in the air
From pellets one put in its stack
Its whistle was mournful – as all are today
As the train raced around the track.

These are the things that swirl in my head
As my clothes spin round the machine
I wonder if the thoughts would be different
If instead, the light had been green.