Easter Sunday
it blows in, that sour stink from the bins, drifting lazy past Tournament House, slipping down the alleyway like some old ghost of the city, rolling right onto platform 7 at Paddington station, where the trains howl and the people rush in the endless movement of coming and going. he’s leaning there against a cold
Uncle Patrick
In the bruised cathedral of the dive, where saints of neon bleed slow crimson on the walls, I sit beside the ghost of Uncle Patrick—silent, eternal—his Campari glowing like a ruby heart torn fresh from some old wound. The smoke hangs in veils, a funeral lace for dead afternoons, and the glass trembles between his