Beckett Street Cemetry

I like to sit with the cold benches at the local cemetry on Beckett Street and read a serious book. The fortunate and unfortunate passed have sweetly wooed me in love with the calm quiet cool air, the smell of wet soil and tree barks and moss.

When the sun burns the back of my neck warmly, I smell the dark coffee and cigarettes of idle nurses who live across the street in the red-brick hospital. And shadows hide, seek, play on the graves and tombstones and tire at dusk.

When it is too dark to see the lines of my book, I wander and wonder and listen to, perhaps their gentle breaths. I can not envy the dead but I enjoy their good, wise company.

Caffeine

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