…
The Brisbane café has
Parisian rattan chairs,
the men in linen,
women bejewelled,
the talk soft, glasses
chiming in chorus
as a couple strolls past,
the man surprised—“We’re early!”—
and his companion,
frowning, “By two minutes; it’s ridiculous,”
unsure of what to do,
but a gentle rain
ushers them inside.
…
A line of benches sits
hard against the wall,
fronting a procession
of passers-by, the rough
tables overlooking the
sleek but quiet bar
across the road,
the punters in raucous
hi-vis and steelcaps or
quieter, muttering
with greasy hair, then from behind
erupts a musical string of expletives
—I wonder if I could ever
write with such grace—
but the sound evaporates.
The three boys on the corner
are looking over flint-eyed,
heads together, and it’s time
to scull my beer
and bail.
…
Back from the street’s flouro buzz and traffic,
behind the wrought-iron gates,
in the hushed half-light,
the world outside—
another place entirely—
a couple to the left, her voice carrying:
“I won’t be sweet-talked
into a fantasy”, the man
laughing softly, and I wonder
if the conversation is about love
or something else,
understanding I will never know,
everything divided from everything else.
Even the parts of myself.
I draw a line
under the words.
…
…
Navigation → Next:
[After the Storm] – mythic weather piece for tonal contrast
[Chasing Clouds in the Burrow] – evening observation on Boundary Street
[A Tiny Deity] – river-edge stillness and renewal
