there is such a place
a black coffee hideout
where the living gather
to add tears to milk
or hope with sugar
to discuss what’s passed
or will soon
through death’s door
what a ripped heart feels like
or a hole-punched soul
sometimes it is fear
and wonder that speak
through the keyhole
rattle the dead bolt
and wait for an answer
but leave it to words
that ache for the dead
to stroll among
the fresh dirt
and crooked tombstones