One’s still asleep
the other pounding over Harbour Bridge
in his new Christmas runners.
I lean into right hip
the way the physio warned
was a bad habit and stare
into morning: gifted
like crinkled sheets
of tissue paper, unfolding
pale blue from open concertina doors.
A few optimistic fruit flies
hover over scraps spilt from the pedal bin.
Stretching squeal, screech
of trucks, train, and cars, distant
shout, honking horns, maybe a siren
but only me
before this open balcony.
Faint scent of Frangipanni
on the breeze softens last night’s remnants
of fried onion. A cabbage moth
meanders over trees
settles briefly on blossom and green
then floats across another canvas.
Yap of dog in nearby courtyard
somewhere, a pneumatic drill
creak of upstairs floorboards
neighbour’s turning faucets, boiling water
beginning or ending things.
But it’s all out there
beyond doors, streets, clouds.
Glint and clatter simply background
to my solitary moments sipping tea
and breathing start of day.