Deathwish bar and tattoo parlour personnel in their themed tees

stand shopfront to review an El Camino Chevrolet

and brace of Hogs. The deep end of Acland Street.

You see a skateboard matador who turns a V8 off loose jeans,

you pass the sign for tarot and an impromptu boxing clinic,

pass Italians, fish n chips and four éclair shops, Readings

booksellers impasto gelato smear and palette knife

scrapings of dog, walk on past ghosts of genuflecting seniors

whose spook bowls indulge their biases on grown-over greens

where co-op veggie beds are raising ropey sunflowers

and scrap metal whimsy to keep out rough sleepers,

coming at last to Luna Park’s impassable tramline knot,

the giant mouth Edvard Munching dental tools awhirr.

Look through the rollercoaster formwork to the pink sun

setting on a fake west coast. A number 16 tram departs

like a spat pill while patron Saint Paul looks on from his mural

on the Espy, harmonising guilt-cred with nostalgia for 13

hours on a bus, the Cross, this promenade both he and I prefer.