Dodge the Dodo

By | 1 June 2022

It’s 10:15 on George a Tuesday
call it a rostered off day
I take slow admiring the art deco
lobby of the Dymocks Building
because somewhere up above is Birdland
who’ve rung to tell me my Esbjörn Svensson Trio
Good Morning Susie Soho has come in

And I’m sidling up to four Otis crates
out of the 1930s as sockless hipster execs
risk barked ankles from goods deliveries
and I even take the time to read
above the foyer clock time conquers all
which it told me Monday, when Birdland was closed

but today it’s open
the cage labours four floors
more brush turkey than Charlie Parker
while I’m thinking all the shops I want
nest high in heritage building
corner suites
rucksack repairs, jazz CDs

I pick up the EST and flick desultorily
through sales table discs almost buying
an old Catholics (not on sale) then walk
four flights to daylight, the mall,
consider picking up some socks and jocks
but on a third thought drop into JB Hi Fi
on the chance they’ve YoYo Ma’s Bach cello suites
(they don’t)

but its OK I remember other music outlets
(classical music outlets) which I google
but there’s nothing now Fish on George has closed
ditto Michael’s Music Room
and that place in the QVB top gallery
I’m sweating by the time I get there
there’s no sign of it
another eaterie, it’s all high-end
accessories and landfill ready clothes
and of Yo Yo who sold out the Opera House
last week and whose spruce-speaking gut
upscaled our impulse likes and piques
to places outside grief and love
there is no trace;
if he exists
it’s as a string of ones and zeros
and he may or may not feel something
what exactly I’m not sure’s been lost
maybe some way we had of breathing.

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