6am
They say the world sleeps

but this is rarely true for people

the white noise traffic lingers eternal

drowned by morning rituals

of turtle doves and lorikeets

perpetual feuding with mynahs.
The cool breeze isn’t quite awake

drags its dusty feet through the grass

its hands through leaves

the smell of bacon heavy on its yawning breath.

Yet somehow,

                        inexplicably

it has energy enough to carve mountains

into a faded grey depression-blanket sky.
Midday
The stench of uncleaned skip bins

Stalks the day with an axe and a smile.

Lorikeets gossip above

perpetually angry about something

their discarded seeds

                                                drop

                                                            like

                                                                        hail.

This yard is a jungle of too-long grass and wild trees

the perfect hunting ground.

Mosquitos declare me their victim

until blood spatter patterns

line my legs and arms.

I sound the retreat.
6pm
Parents yelling at their children

is as close to a choral performance

as this town gets.

One family shouts a symphony

perfected over months,

the next begins in the momentary lull

until the sounds of dysfunction interweave

with the screech and blare of enraged traffic.
The grey blanket sky has been battered by the heat

wisps of cotton all that remain.

The never-enough breeze has calmed

still wearing garbage like cologne

enthusiastically applied before a date

no one actually wanted to go on.