The blue sky is a forlorn face
With fleeting frowns of grey smoke
Cigarettes smudge under expensive soles
Hungry seagulls await their donation
Patient like homeless men
A pigeon exploits of a tree its nest
Like humans build
Of those boxes of concrete
Their opulent homes
Trees dispel their leaves
Like angry mothers
Abandoning their young
Two street musicians
Busking on a busy track
Heads askew
A burden on unhinged shoulders
Untamed hair
Obeys ferociously
The dictation of the wind
Distressed clothing
Unclean boots, untied laces
Fresh- shaven faces
A thirst for beer
Gold and silver currency
Shimmer under the generous sun
Lie scattered atop
The red velvet lining
Of a yawning guitar suitcase
A mobile audience
Judgmental and restless
Affluent men forging their influence
Bourke Street or Wall Street
Finders, keepers, capital rules
People who charge after trams
People who flee from them
People who enter and exit the mall
Tall men with short character
Short men with short tempers
A folk with a fedora
Struggles to assimilate
Into a hatless crowd
People who people the city
For the city’s sake
Uniform buildings
Primitive architecture
Black and white flags
Flung in the air
Claim their territory
For David Jones
One musician takes a break
The other goes on solo
An autopilot
Stomps his feet
To the rhythm of silence avoided
The retired musician
Surveys his assembly
He sends his hand to the forefront
An umbrella for his eyes
Saluting the sun
Upon Bourke Street
Satisfaction lies
But within
