Midmorning Sunday the mall

is dead. Too young to be hungover

in bed we hang on the rotunda steps

like temple monkeys in the sun.

We chip in—score a stick,

smoke up in the alley,

pass the pipe from lips

to lips, smuggle a backpack

of Macca’s into the art-house cinema

where Astro Boy’s dad is mad

his son won’t grow up. Man—

he doesn’t know shit.