A flock of naked cyclists, plucked and pinking, intercept my tram

to yell this through the tilted-open window as they pass,

looping from Lygon Street onto Elgin with their orange flags

and painted backs, two or three abreast, the little rain

prickling at my earlobe as their words do, their cheers and bells

like water felled in infinitesimal parts; the same stuff cried

by dinosaurs. In thirty minutes, the city will be puddled slick

like a teenage mood in August; all fresh cum and misery,

during which time I’ll pretend to read the four-hundredth page

of Carpentaria, while I really scan the cagey mass of gear and flesh

for interesting bits: scrotum, dimples, bush and wonky nipples;

the communal, marsupial paunch of the cycling postured torso

pressed forward into low, flat flight. Could we really be this simple?

I have told so many people: there is no mode of transportation

on earth more energy efficient than the jump of a kangaroo.