Euclid Avenue


My dead speak to me too softly 
under the traffic noise 
of an early commute. 


Their words do not come through, 
but I can hear 
the complaint in their tone. 


At a stop light 
where I am boxed in 
by big rigs, 


their voices are 
fearful like children. 
I think they are trying 


to remind me of careless 
moments in my past. 
Maybe they’re telling me of theirs.