Thursday, June 30, 2011


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'.

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