My entire life, I’ve minded my own business.
Sure, a billy goat or two
have been known to go missing
at times when I feel peckish,
but who’s ever heard of a vegetarian troll?
Never one to engage in human endeavors,
I’ve lived quietly under this bridge
(that is, until they built a train station
above my horned and warty head).
Below a railroad that splits right and wrong,
I straddle both sides
like there are soldiers of
angels and demons upon my shoulders.
I’ve been called many things in my lifetime
from swine of the earth
to lies about my mothers’ lover;
that only the sperm of
a beast of burden could
make such a hideous creature.
These teases couldn’t even
pop one of the many pimples littering my back,
but the children from each Track Faction
call the other insults that would
make me crawl into a ball
and cry my eyes out,
for I’d rather be blind than see
the monsters who would say such things.
Young warriors who fight a geographic battle
over a boundary 1 meter wide
(like a street sign could decide
good and evil);
I’m flattered that they think so much
of my humble bedside.
But I’m growing hungry.
Just once, I’d like to feast on
a sweet little boy without an older sibling
trip-trapping behind him,
but the children are not traversing
back and forth across my bridge anymore,
hoping to find greener happiness
on the opposite end of my home.
Even though chickens are still crossing,
these kids are so terrified
of the other side of the steel road
that it’s become impossible
to eat an easy (or even gruff) meal.
What they don’t realize is that
there is no such thing as
the wrong side of the tracks,
for if you turn back behind yourself,
right and left switch places
and you are left
which is better.