What the Dead Miss
by Laura Foley

This morning I think I see, in the light
dimpling the river’s emerald green
beneath me, the faces of my dead husband,
parents and younger sister,
feel their fingers in the fresh breeze
on my cheeks, as I breathe the diesel smell
of passing trucks, reminding me
of my need to refuel. As I hold the nozzle
in place, I watch clouds scurry
and reform, like roving ghostly crowds.
I hear music in the liquid trickling,
filling my tank to the brim,
music in my steady footsteps,
tapping percussion on pavement,
the car door closing with a click.
They say that’s what the dead miss most,
an ordinary day, spent like this.