In this city the sky is always grey and the sun doesn't set till late into the night, in this city seagulls smoke by the riverside, in this city the people drink too much and laugh too loud and are always too kind, kindness that follows you through the day, lights up your way, like a moth on gossamer wings. In this city that is so old it forgets it's age, in this city with lazy buses that don't go anywhere and trams that never come, the city that keeps its history on its skin and never lets it seep too deep into its bones, in this city I have a room by the railway. In this room there is a light that looks like the moon and there is a lover that snores too loud, and there is a love that sits too still, like water a stagnant pond, from back home in the suburbs where my lover is from. The ponds that were always green with wild lilies and hyacinth, my lover's skin is smooth and green like the leaves. In this room there are curtains that broke once and then were fixed. I write this room because I try to write Dublin as I see it, because my friend Roísin once said that Whitman writes the America that Norman Rockwell paints, and I don't want to paint a postcard city. In this city the sky is always grey and the people are kind. In this city the seagulls are alive, on summer nights they drink too much and the city sings it's song, this city is still alive and it's lungs are young.
