EUCLID AVENUE – John Brantingham

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.

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