What happens when smoke and fog have an unattractive baby

Oft changeful muse with scripted fate, A silent bard of time's own gait, In numbered dance, dost keep our date.

I flick my hand to make you look. I point there to take your attention. I flip the pen in the right, so you do not see the left. I'm not a thing, but the action taken. What am I?

a bee sound. a haircut. Aldrin. Lightyear. What's my name?

The mundane heart of the trolley problem. The thing you might might pull to swap a train. In the halls of democracy, politicians move these to get their way.