…
After the day’s heat,
the sun having dropped
and the sky bled to grey,
although the jazz singer’s voice is starting
to colour the cool air turquoise, each note
brightening the shade, reflected in beer-scented
condensation puddles on tables,
Molly the dog barks
on the pavement outside the bar.
…
Across the road, a dishevelled man is perched
on the rusted steel steps behind the op-shop,
eggshell-blue cylinder gripped in a rough hand,
his thumb pushes the nozzle, and he
pulls,
floating up, and up,
to that place—
transfixed
by the sound
of a tongueless bell
that lends the atmosphere
the colour of no colour.
…
A woman takes a drag from a cigarette,
breathes out,
Molly barks,
does a pirouette, runs after the smoke,
leaping, snapping at it,
three times in mid-air
before trotting back
satisfied.
…
She’s like me
here, now—
chasing
clouds.
…
…
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