you old harlot.
From my rented flat I see
your big-ticket items –
solid arc of Bridge,
glinting slivers of Opera House.
the closest I'll get to Europe now.
You were my second home, Sydney,
until I deserted you for a quieter life.
pushing my ailing body around your streets.
onto your piss-riddled pavements
crazed with old tree roots.
She stops at every smell,
sniffs layer upon layer.
shops coffee noise food garbage –
and the heady scent of human stories.
worn apartment buildings shrug off
drunks and druggies with weary elegance.
They whisper, 'come live amongst us,
we'll weave you close again.'
press your brittle bones against
my warming skin.
Make me feel alive again.