The bench is empty now,
no books spread like soft rebellions,
no laughter stitched between the raindrops.
Only silence, thick as the Liffey’s swell.
Dublin still hums, but it hums without him—
the pigeons peck at the absence,
the statues stand a little stiffer,
as if they, too, feel the cold.
A city forgets in its own way,
but somewhere in the wind,
a line of his lingers
half a joke, all a masterpiece.
Kayt
March 25
