morning in southern city thunder
poems busted in waves
and in afternoon suns
in cars locked in grids
in freeway finger gesture
we wait for clear spaces
and dream new places
to park
without coins

as boot smacks leather
echoes cross ovals
and one-eyed whistles

love is a torpedo punt
through the sticks
fifty-five metres out

north of the river streets
wet with ideas
and knock-off beers
the tales of pale ale froth
and the sun hits ocean
in a sherrin-red sky