Monday, November 13, 2006

From here to the Cross

Long sleek cars
filed in against gutters
tan-leathered, gilt-edged.
Short skirts bent at the waist,
Prada on show for the
village cafe.

Prancing boys muscle
past breeders and feeders
on street corners,
glarey tops shouting ironic slogans
at latte guzzling home buyers
craving to get in.

Dogs shit, owners scrape,
filling plastic bags,
dropping them into bins.
Couples stop in sunlight
and stare at boat-filled harbour glimpses
or sparkling cityscapes
before stepping over used syringes
and half-filled condoms.

A broken-down man shakes himself
out of fever-filled dreams,
rolls up the edge of a cardboard mattress
for a buried smoke
and asks a Zegna suit,
cupla coins for a hot cuppa, mate.
The suit walks on.

A red-dressed lawyer
and her banker man
edge into a street table,
parking their bugaboo pram,
and order an evening spring coffee
enjoying their special time
without the nanny.

This is my world-weary show.
A sometimes-good-time adventure
wonderland wearyland world,
where gutter and stars churn
day and night
but rarely
come together.

A couple,
driven by circumstance
to get out,
close the car doors,
and head away,
Anywhere they can start again.

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