There’s a certain amount of you that needs to lie to yourself
so that you can catch your bus
past the lions surveying the poor savannah of Newtown and down that long Adelaide neck to the green basin, its cracked pavilion, the twin terraces whose centre once you walked, where your mother
bought a car after years of taking
the train to her cleaning jobs, while you sat quietly in the big unruly houses and pretended not to go through those stranger’s drawers. How long that mile had seemed then with all its shine and roar.
They’ve shifted the road back
and forth, in stages of improvement. How small it all seems, returning. You could try again to be open like the storm drains they’re laying are to the sky and once they’ve found their right and proper place, they’ll seal over and carry that crush of liquid on the pouring days through the city’s concrete arteries to the sea.
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