Walking to the light rail yesterday, a woman said into her phone, “That’s where I’m at in case I go dead”, which prompted the following poem.

BACKWARDS ON THE TRAIN

We hadn’t been having a good conversation.

The wind in my mouthpiece as I walked.

A sign read look both ways before crossing.

The things that kill us come fast.

That’s what I thought of cancer when you asked.

I hadn’t always thought that way.

Now I was on record.

It didn’t sit well with you.

I missed what you said next.

My battery was lulling.

Plus reception is bad near the tracks.

To much concrete.

It’s called a dead spot.

Where I stood as the train crossed the river.

Telling you you were losing me.