Winter Stars

,

.

I’ve been through this

before in imagination,

since you were never predicted

to live this long.

The ambulance.

The hospital.

The white cotton gloves

left on top of the coffin.

And so now

that it’s the body twisting

itself to death

rather than simply

turning off

as predicted,

all of my prepared

expressions are useless.

And I’m left

like the amateurs,

wondering what

makes the trains sound

so beautiful

in the distance

in the twilight.