Rolling

A ghost train screeched to a halt. Out of track.
Stood there in the Old West for an hour
until a passenger in the dining car asked,
Why does a ghost train need real track?
Which seemed like a good question, so
the train started rolling again through the fields of corn.

Elsewhere a real train screeched to a halt.
No ghost track, only the usual metal rails.
Stood there in the Old West for an hour
until a passenger also eating breakfast asked,
But why does a real train need ghost track?
Which seemed like a good question, so
the train started rolling again through the ghost towns.

Seth Crook taught philosophy at various universities before deciding to move to the Hebrides. His poems appear in recent editions of Envoi, Magma, Gutter, The Moth, Southlight, The Journal, Poetry Bus, Prole, New Writing Scotland, and on-line in such fine e-zines as Antiphon, Snakeskin, and Ink, Sweat and Tears.