These are the things,
that roll us along,
to the next time the bins go out,
and again, and again.
Footbrakes on time, and gathering speed, without us,
time runs out, for some.
We will not forget, these years,
details disremembered.
Loss, thick sadness, self-care,
get over it, these wounds are not the foulest they could be.
Apathy for unchanged aromas, unchanged sounds,
with curiosity perfected,
of the magpies, and the grain of the fence.
I miss you, go away.
And meet me under the clocks, below the ballroom, by the red granite purse.
Let’s chart the city through colognes,
Guatemalan beans brewed green apple and brown sugar caught on the laneway draught,
roasted cashews from David Jones,
waffles in the underpass, with bin juice and ammonia.
Inhale the City Loop, running fingers on the escalator, sharply down into familiar blue.
These are the things,
that roll us along,
to the next time the bins go out,
and again, and again.
Gagging within these walls, confused,
the outside a vast miasma we fear.
Remote from work, distanced from living, existing in work, aching for home,
let us out, and bring us home.
A mockery,
working like Sisyphus.
Keep the children inside, like the zoo beasts on the monitor.
Let them place flat hands on the Waterwall, and squeal,
make angels on plum carpets under Leonard’s mosaic ceiling,
and overbalance on the tram, in their thrill.
Let them touch, let them smell,
protect them.
These are the things,
that roll us along,
to the next time the bins go out,
and again, and again.
Scroll the numbers, no not those numbers,
the other numbers, where are we going now?
Nowhere, in this race, carry on.
Exhaustion can’t sustain this artificial place,
carry on.
Shield us, together, alone.
One day.
Let’s hurry up, but don’t rush me when we can,
pause time when time starts up.
Let me be abandoned, with pungent nothing a while longer.
I’ll taste it all again when I am alone, on that train,
with my lipstick. Sunny, sunny lipstick.
And meet you then,
not by the bins on our street,
near the Spire, by the scullers, under the old, old Elms,
our stretching, dying Elms.
Such a fuss,
we are making.
The muddle, and the bother, and the contradictions of living,
in this time.
The fuss would be greater,
if we were dead.
