©1984 Joel M. Frye
There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.
A woman on a suitcase,
The porter in mid-stride;
Two kids, an old man watching
For that train they'll never ride.
“Hey, Grampa, where's old 99?”
“She won't come through again.
The interstate's a-rolling
Where we used to catch the train.”
There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.
The steel canal, it nailed the lid
On Mr. Clinton's dream.
The iron horse died of drowning
Underneath an asphalt stream.
There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.
“Hey, Grampa, where's old 99?”
“She won't come through again.
Six-ninety goes a-rolling
Where we used to catch the train.”
There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.
Ghosts
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