140.

A man was hit by a train
at the mouth of the tunnel
near work. I think I can feel his ghost,
before speeding into the yellowed dark.
On the way home,
another train was stopped for twenty minutes
while another man wouldn't stop frolicking
on the tracks.
Sadness for him, and a selfish
annoyance. I am sorry,
But I am not as good a person
as I once was.

What will you miss about me?
The way I can recognize a heron's silhouette
on the water at late dusk?
The mint in my hair?
The first time I saw you cry?

I worry that the track is still red,
that somebody wasn't able to scrub it clean.
That ghosts are real and the man
won't know how to leave.
That there's no light to leap into.
That you'll forget that my voice
once sang your name.