The sky fractures like a windscreen

the blue Mobil Mart sign keeps the intersection alive.

Somewhere a tram, dance music.

A council worker weaves

out of a pub doorway.

The idea of living here
amongst slabs of 70s red brick

where developers slip you 300 to move out

and walk away from your vegie patch

making plans for concrete, fake grass,
in a landscape of reclaimed mansions

where a man walks the streets reading SON OF ROSEMARY,

others shuffle in pyjamas past traffic jams—

ciggies dangling, eyes glazed, talking to trees,

making milk bar owners nervous.
I meet my neighbours at the clothes line

the small talk falls between us

like pegs in the basket.
Nights glow in passing planes,

the honeycomb light of the Commission Flats

towering above the antennas, chimneys,

a rubber tree concealing a shopping trolley

and our compost bin watched over by cats
who track my movements in this fibro sun room

where I’m often at sea leaning against a door jamb

that’s seen better days, with the changes

sweeping in from the bay

the way a memory leaves you in its wake.