there are stories in these windows
covered in the spray of the sea.
the lives inside a city so pretty
are a book that writes itself, but
there is no view that tells the full story.
there's the lady in 5g who cultivates
exotic plants in even more exotic pots.
every seedling and rootball,
every delicate orchid & hardy cactus
a newborn over which she
cooed and fussed. the whole place
held the humidity of a rainforest
and the emptiness of a cave.
there's the young potter on the top floor,
whose thuds and whirs made her windows tremble,
hard at work, through the dark
and the light, it's subsistence living
dressed up as art and she knows it.
(at least she has the sea).
she fills boxes with the jugs and mugs,
carries them down to a kiln that
sometimes works and prays she'll break
even at the market. she's a strapping
human but exudes a sense that
she won't be around much longer.
then there's the old man upstairs
who cultivated a friendship with a
kookaburra. every morning, on the knocker,
sometimes mince, sometimes cheese
would lure the wild bird
to the balcony.
they built up quite a connection;
when kook laughed
so would the wildman,
throw himself back in an
alarming duet of bush and bear.
the lonely hearts sparkle all over
this pretty city, dotted in a
constellation that just can't seem
to reach totality.
they go out, they come home.
they fashion trinkets and amulets,
rituals and vision boards.
they have jobs to pay the bills
and keep them sane, but on the
nights when the tide rises over
their souls and the full moon
howls at itself the idea of
wolfsbane can really take hold.
