For some reason I seem to have written a fair number of poems about the tourist bureau at Ghent. I hope the good folks of Ghent will forgive me, and the bad ones will stand me a drink when next I'm there.
The third thing they teach you
When you join the tourist bureau in Ghent
Is that the dead will sometimes shuffle in
And wait politely, though obviously confused.
Don't stare; it embarasses them.
The bus for Bruges leaves
from the café
Two streets over.
If you advance them fare money tell them
The Banc de Jacauin has branches
Throughout Hell, and, in Heaven,
A night deposit box.