Ghost trains

I came to a stop Slow in the land Of ghost trains Empty suitcases Strewn In lines of heather Soft as I ran And my fingers They licked up Every piece Of every yesterday In this Barren town And as I pushed down into pockets That I’d wished would never end I knew the place existed I knew Some hand had placed Each And all Of the floral hand painted Deep green oak handled Sweet silk lined suitcases Yet the question I asked in this Barren dust land Was Which man Had Named these roads?

-Emily Joe Watterson