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