Melbourne

Industrial bins are dragged and kicked over in the sky.

It’s grey it’s blue—grey again blue it’s grey…

Half-empty drums roll like tumbleweed through
indecisive mist and the culprit’s yawn echoes.

Looks like rain.

Expansion—contraction. Dull explosions.

Some say the Gods tussle to keep fear alive—
we do just fine.

Rumbles seem to begin from beneath my feet, but
there’s nothing sharp about it.

Melbourne weather’s like falling asleep on a foreign sofa
beneath creaky wood as tenderfeet make step—
separated-by-two-second step toward relief.

Whatever’s going on upstairs, I take the hint—
it’s none of my business.

Photograph by me. Artwork by Anonymous.