Between the Satan’s Slaves and the Sisters of Our Lady of Compassion sits the pub. Once upon a time it was our post office , the world changed and piss replaced postage. Now I sit with my mother and sip beer , the ghost of my father stares at us across the street.

The ham factory no longer billows smoky semaphore , the pictures have lost their frames. A port hole to the heavens stares out through the stained glass of a wild mind. The hot bread shop has ceased to excrete vapors.

This child is now middle aged.