Chemin De Fer

Alone on the railroad track

 I walked with pounding heart.

The ties were too close together

 or maybe too far apart.

The scenery was impoverished:

 scrub-pine and oak; beyond

its mingled gray-green foliage

 I saw the little pond

where the dirty old hermit lives,

 lie like an old tear

holding onto its injuries

 lucidly year after year.

The hermit shot off his shot-gun

 and the tree by his cabin shook.

Over the pond went a ripple

 The pet hen went chook-chook.

"Love should be put into action!"

 screamed the old hermit.

Across the pond an echo

 tried and tried to confirm it.