Not so much a ghost as that which shakes a tipsy stillness
A cold cola, no matter how sweet, is no proxy for the warmth of fresh coffee
Words float about almost abstractly
A sad peek-a-boo if you will, as rays battle through the grey of grey
This soiled pavement, offering itself up like a requiem for the living
An electromagnetic field malfunctions
Suddenly water cannot boil in the shopkeeper’s kettle. Agh, no matter.
Plein Street, quiet. Who wouldn’t want to rest on Sundays?
‘We family’, you tell her, she counts out five, no, six teaspoons of sugar
Interested, not scared, thank you.
Where to next?
Hobbling forth in multi-chipped grin; for a short while something is familiar
Boundaries are anatomically dissimilar to full stops
You perch between Parliament and Christ Jesus
How far can he get, really, with a hot cappuccino?
Bernadette Richards is from Cape Town enjoys various forms of art.