A reason to live here is that summer will come.
There were eight freighters in the Bay today,
industrial action would be a reasonable guess;
this was a Sunday with Dimitris and his dog walking,
of dodging small girls with large balls,
You fear the crowds more than the balance of ships
as you stroll past a block of flats,
a beautiful old place, a block of flats,
egalitarian architecture, interesting structural curves
turning gauche with a sea view.
Spray Street, Beach Street, Foam Street
run off the Esplanade; inland to Tennyson Street,
Shelley Street; Byron Street sidles up the canal, Poets Grove.
I’d say Ricardo is up in St. Kilda Street watching Ferrari lead the Grand Prix,
Louise is by the point reading an American novel
or gone to bed surrounded by ghost lines of her hand washing,
Ramona’s mother, Margaret, is two streets up not snoring.
A man is climbing stairs carrying pizza in a pouch,
an engine turns over in the carpark by the kiosk,
they storm home in pointed boots from pubs north;
you could dream of clocking on tomorrow,
Nirvana spikes up in the carpark by the kiosk.
© Hugh Tolhurst