Friday night in Glebe
is a revisitation
which is to say
one can have a distance
to where they are
in the sounding
of a car horn.
Even the passing
of a cop car
only gives rise
to muted adrenalin
and the seagulls
are dirty and well
suburban, arguing
to no-one like
spaced out drug dealers
who've just been ripped off
blaming our fabric's
lack of St. Jerome
or beatific teachings
of drunken Basho
on a rowdy rave.
There are hotels
with solitary bands
playing reggae
as mass to jam
cover ten bucks
I enter
and they sadly look at me
as if I were a pilgrim
arrived in Coptic secrecy
with pockets of revelry
and sleeves tugged
the only proper cultivado
in the dunes of dividing lines
to the road outside
I decide to buy a drink
to ghost celebrations
and applause
WOOHOO
the reggae band
keep playing
looking at each other
for approval of
unplanned lick
landing on a sweet minor seven
flaring to someone else
who else is left to cheer?
I may as well sleep here
if the bar staff made me
a toddy.
