Whistlestop
There used to be a train station here it was busy
and many came from the village to see who was leaving or arriving
that was ok; it is nice to wave goodbye or
welcoming a relative that has been away too long and might have
picked up big city manners.
Then the ghost of privatization came, and the line was closed, but
there is a bus arriving twice a day, but lack romance
bus travel is so common everybody facing one way and no stretching
and pacing in the hall.
The train station was sold off as a dwelling and the terminal a garden
where, as we speak, a tourist was told to leave
he was pacing waiting for the last train to take him home and to
the airport; he had waited for twenty years.
Not that the wife of the house minded, she was a good hearted woman,
as long as he stood still he kept birds away and she
didn't have to take him in when it rained he had an umbrella and was
happy when she bought him leftovers – she didn't like dogs-.
Then a twilight day it happened a train stopped the tourist boarded,
a whistle-stop you might say, the train never came back.