I came home, walking past the bank
a man stopped me, he is the local holy man, nut, sage, lunatic, thief, pervert
depending on who you ask.
He pointed to the bricks in the old bank
(off North Street)
‘Following the guns and bombs, will come the trees and vines,
they will grow here and knock the buildings down. We are in the middle of a great forest.’
I passed him, nodding. I understood.
I sit in my room. My house (second floor anyway)
looks out over Mount Mary
and on top of that is the holy Church of Our Lady.
I watch the people go to church
the mass is held midday
and at night they have an old fashioned latin mass
(to which I want to go one day just to hear the latin)
The people come, wearing their best clothes
and it’s not just old people and immigrants
The church is on top of the hill and commands a great view, to its north is the city and to the south is the train tracks and
When it rains I close my windows tight
but dream of letting them stay open
counting the rain drops as they soak my carpet
leaving me sad
and soggy socked
for weeks afterwards.
Step into the shower and
let the water run down your back
and listen to the bells, the bells