A Word for Living Creatures

The song you avoid
begins to play. 
You would change
the radio station to another
one, any one, but you can’t.
The song is on
the loudspeaker
at the local coffee shop.
You have no say
about what songs (no,
song, it’s singular,
it’s only this song)
are and are not allowed.
You hear it
and are reminded of -
you’re reminded of him
but not him, not him exactly, 
more a ghost (a specter?), 
not a silhouette -
he’s been gone too long
to have a distinct form -
something murkier, something 
with a slight edge
you rub your thumb 
against, then wonder
at the cut, the blood, the
return to the coffee shop, 
you murmuring sorry 
to the barrista who says sorry, 
too, thinking you’re upset 
with your order, the coffee has 
burnt your tongue, and 
you nod, of course, 
because you can’t,
you can’t say anything.