Hindley Reverie

By | 31 October 2012

A lunch poem

Perhaps everyone drives round these blocks forever
as cafes get lost in the trawl of Hindley Street
these blocks, just to see something happen.
‘Adelaide’s No.1 Party Venue’, a kind of inroad
or airborne, the sound, lonely sputnik, hey there
you may arrive at The Woolshed, the all male review
what you may want, KFC, KBox, karaoke.
There’s also the art part amongst lunchtime squelching,
some Germans, a queen and his staffy, tapas, city stuff,
‘Playing Till Late’, and though you’re puzzled, you’ve intuited
from the beginning that Polites isn’t a health regime.

There’s paper scattered round, The Advertiser unreadable
the festival programs unreadable, nothing to do with
what goes on, like happy hour, sex work, making
a custom Tshirt, selling secondhand books,
scoffing schnitties, checking the phone — ‘needs and desires’
an oldfashioned textbook might say, probably still on a shelf
somewhere nearby.
                                 Should we be impressed
with the Fringe or Writers Week or 4 Coronas
for $20? While in Tempo there’s some sizzling going on
a burger, a meeting, everyone knows each other here –
well, not you, sweetheart, but, y’know, everyone …

A complete unknown could be perfect, so you can
hide from heat and conversation in the midst
without news or pretence with hero parking and a desert wind
in ‘the workshop of the mind’ as someone once said
too cutely, and all that’s missing is sea salt which should come
from the sea out of the west but refuses and so do you,
but not in a bad way, you have to think and move, nothing is still
even in a heatwave, it is a wave, all that pressure.

A caterer’s truck slams the gutter and anything’s possible
there’s nothing zen in that, existence moves on the waters
and on the sands, and if language made that up
it sounds as possible as whatever may be delivered
along Hindley Street, and, hey there, you might arrive
sometime, but it’s not so lonely in this space
these circles, these funny old corners.

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