Fishbowl Poem by Terence Winch

I can't think of anything else
to talk with you about. We have
discussed our jobs, our daily commute,
the foods we like and don't like.
You have ordered wine. I get a Pepsi.
People have died. We acknowledge that.
We're here and they're not. You get up
early. I get up late. I want to tell you
that I see your special dead person still,
mostly in the subway. She was wonderful.
Your new girlfriend is also a gem. How is
it possible to love people who no longer
exist? But they're everywhere, coming
and going in the world of the dead
as though they haven't torn us in pieces
with their absence. They observe us
intently. We are fish in a fishbowl to them.
They watch from afar while we struggle to swim.