A poem

The chit chat on High Street


Is extreme weather and industrial relations.


I'm incredulous. 


Across the road a rough girl shrieks at her wasted companion to get stuffed. Get stuffed! she screams at regular intervals along the strip.  


The air is hot and small bugs land on my wrist.


As trumpets blaze into passing semi trailers,


Two girls look into the shop front near where I sit and declare it "too neat" by which I think they mean inauthentic. 


Not Northcote. 


They wear no shoes and the asphalt has scored their soles black. 


Trams fly past; their gantry poles pushing into the overhead wire - skipping along as frazzled connections bounce and burn. 


Now a siren as a fire truck emerges from Mitchell Street and heads turn to see. 


Windows down, dance music blaring. 


Light fades and the shops light up. 


More parading couples


Eyes darting into windows


Looking all around.