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.