The cars that fly down Brunswick Street
A slender crack of open window
A certain kind of light
Moving voices on the sidewalk.
My room, my magical Queendom
Where stories hang like webs
And colourful messes of dreams
Collide happily, spill into real life.
Coffee, in a thick enamel mug
The white against bright egg-yellow
A waiter who balances it daintily
The surface swirled with brown.
Dogs, and converse sneakers
And Mercedes, and market stalls
And aviator glasses, and newspapers
And breakfasts that no one needs.
The words, the typing, the watching
The animals, and the sky
The thinking, the dreaming, the hoping
The loving, all things fresh and new.
The church bells ringing nearby
The arched ceiling above grey heads
A rose bush, bare and crackling
Rising from manicured, short green grass.
The books, the ideas and the ways
The images play around
The tree near my stairs says hello
And invisible friends gather around.
The moon rising over rooftops
And the first stars, blinking confusedly
And watching the leaves whisper and shake
The essays read by torchlight.
The ragged blue bunny
The dented off-white pillow
The eyes which shutter on pages
The goodbye I feel, in sleep
To my friends: so long, until next Saturday.