Australia
Ross Jackson
Communities in glass jars
since nothing is worth doing
but electronic games
humans roost indoors now
suburbs are unobserved
that is, by people anyway
balconies freed up for birds
to preach to the breeze
whilst staring in at us
up close
dogs are taking streets for walks
streets are straying grassier
now folks are tightly corked indoors
who knows what else may pass
in fresher air in Nature
perhaps chimps will peer in
from the trees
aghast with homo sapiens
at home on castors
pecking at their animes
Cellists in concert
it’s not until after he has passed me
at the bus station platform
that I see strapped to the juvenile’s back
a headless corpse, or shiny sarcophagus
a young girl beside me unlatches
a large black case, settles her
deeply tanned, shapely companion
between her knees
as someone begins tuning up
at stop number nine
then another, and another
multitudes of hands bowing sideways
this music around me combined
with the noise of the buses
all but the 83 which is yet to arrive
From The Coffee Club at Table 33
a laser cut ornamental metal roof
with faux Moorish design
above my head also, a flight of white birds
seen through a window
a masonry wall by my elbow
spray-painted to look like street art
but not so punk
a street view of trees growing
in massive pots
on the centre strip of Murray Street
set for a day of skywriting
my squad of white birds
flying into the distance
side on to my table-skinny woman
in a backless dress
her backbone the profile
of a Toblerone
front page of a free newspaper
a terrorist had burst in to Signature Bespoke
was seen leaving an hour later
in a three-piece charcoal
pinstripe suit
as I peer up at the dots of those birds
what I assume is smoke
jet streams from far off
feathered behinds
man bags, shoulder bags
or lap tops
slung from their claws