Killing You off on Public Transport
Sometimes I imagine you’re dead when they ask
for my tram ticket. It’s harsh, I know:
the faked call I get from a family member
or police officer, the news of your death handed to me
like a cocked shotgun. Can I see your ticket?
he’ll say, and I’ll sit there, deaf with grief.
I can cry on cue now, my eyes, apples
bobbing in water. I’m wracked with guilt when the conductor,
once happy in his cap, stands ham-fisted
at my tears, his smile a broken wishbone.
It’s got to the point where I’m no longer sure
why it is I’m crying: if it’s this
pantomime death I’ve constructed in my head for you,
a sort of cirque du soleil of misfortune;
if it’s the conductor’s face channelling
my heartache like a circuit; or if it’s these strangers
sharing the seats in front of me, their closeness
a cut throat razor. And all this for the sake
of a free ride. I’m not sure I could make it through the day
otherwise, never mind all the way to Attercliffe.