poem

Peak hour.
Stop. Start.
We walk on Flinders Street.
Whenever this happens to me
I can hardly believe the shock horror.
"There's no air," I say to him,
only carbon monoxide.

Suddenly, the moment is saved.
A perfume overdose walks by,
normally a disaster,
but saving me,
the perfume trapped
on top of base fume level,
just below nostril height,
the only sweet smell for two blocks.
Blessed are the tall.

We escape
onto a number 3 tram
which, being higher up,
retains a good facsimile of air.
All things are relative.

Down Saint Kilda Road,
where the cars stop for traffic lights,
two men are cleaning windscreens.
Is the air really that bad here?

Nice people to visit,
but you wouldn't want them to live here.