I've been through this
before in my imagination,
since you were never predicted
to live this long.

The ambulance.
The hospital.
The white cotton gloves
left on top of the coffin.

Now
that it's the body twisting
itself to death
rather than simply
turning off
as the doctors
predicted,
all of my prepared
expressions are useless.

I'm left
like the amateurs,
wondering what
makes the trains sound
so beautiful
in the distance
in the twilight.