CULTURE SHOCK

Nobody looks remotely like me
But the ladies' dark eyes are lovely,
And tresses so sleek and skin so smooth -

Gold ranging through to black-like blue.

And I can't understand a word
In the cascade of conversations -
Foreign face to face, almond eye to eye -
And loudmouth tones
On smart mobile phones.

Signs slide by in swirling scripts
I cannot decipher at all;
And alien blurs flash by foggy glass,
Waiting just to ride like those of us inside.

But then a voice breaks into my state,
Steered by static and strange accent,
And yet still clear enough to give the gist
That guides expectation:
'Strathfield next station'.