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
what was previously unchanged

1 comment:

Peter Hudson said...

no worries mate, one day we'll all be shed off this place like a fleas off a shaking dog.