sitting, striking keys while the harbour dies

cold wind seeps

under slitted wood window

I sit at the keyboard dreaming

about this and that

rather than work as I’m

supposed to

I see my bike through

the wooden slitted window seeping wind

she waits alone locked up

soon I’ll be free again

to fly through city streets feigning

flight of gulls over the harbour

dirty harbour, whose

mouth has been made to swallow

manmade detritus for two hundred years

who keeps her mouth open

for more abuse until she dies

I sit here

at this keyboard

typing short lines

three to four words

six max

for the sake of hearing keys

sink to their bottoms

for the sake of not doing

what I’m supposed to

while the harbour swallows rain runoff

oil, soap, cleaning agents

make their way

with floating cigarette butts and

foam peanuts

through sewers

bypassing befuddled broken processing plants

oil and toxicity flow into her

while city politicos sit sideways

lunching along her flanks

feasting on lobster caught just outside

their eateries resting

right above the sewer traps

where rats drown

I sit at this keyboard

striking, looking up occasionally

wondering why you’ve come this far

wondering why I dream

of this and that

rather than produce, produce, produce

the harbour? she sits there calm

mouth open through calamity

not a silent scream or whimper

‘till something else

changes

what was previously unchanged