His Voice Had Grown Softer Each Day

I need you to get me a ticket, he said.
For what, I asked, waking at the foot of his bed.
For the train, he said. They say I need a ticket.
Except for the small lamp the room was dark.
The air was cool and clear. The first night of September.
Do you know who they are, I asked
and he said, oh yes. They are smiling and waving—
I haven’t seen them for so long.
The want me to climb on board….I need my ticket.
I want to give you a ticket, I said.

Kevin Goodan
His Voice Had Grown Softer Each Day is reprinted from In The Ghost-House Acquainted (Alice James Books, 2004).