It gets quiet at 3am.
The bedsheets are wrinkled and rolled back.
Another half empty cup of coffee,
Another crumpled sheet of paper.
A church is holier when it is empty,
When every private step echoes off the ceiling,
Like ripples of solemn sound
And the candles stand unlit,
This is an ancient artform,
A relic almost sacred I told her
As I placed the huge black disc onto the platform.
I've never even seen one of these she confessed.
In the downtown clubs you can hear them singing.
Ghost's songs stepping off the coffin ships
Which carried them across that broad Western ocean.
Patrick O'Reilly lives in St. John's, Newfoundland. He works in a warehouse.