The Men

The men stand outside the Dunkin Donuts Center on a cold sunny November morning. They stand in their shirt sleeves, skirted by wall, at the top of a broad sweep of steps. They are smoking and talking. Like men in church porches. Men in dark suits of indiscriminate fit. The pungent smell of damp and rain. Their loose knot slips further to let me pass. The church by the sea in Kincasslagh. Holding its secret of ordinariness etched in the astringent sublime.