I choose to live in a mongrel suburb,

my scruffy street a united nations.

You live on the leafy side, unperturbed

by sameness, your own face, your relations.

You tell me, over coffee and éclair,

that on a rare train trip last week you’d seen

“a boy from Footscray, or somewhere out there,

you know, tats, moccasins and stove pipe jeans.

He vomited in the carriage, right there

in front of everyone. Didn’t clean up,

just stared round with a stupid grin. ‘Who cares?’”

The look on your face was not quite disgust,

telling your little Western suburb story,

but unamused, self-congratulatory.