on the balcony over a girl smokes a cigarette
and argues with someone on her phone.
I pause, let the dog piss and feel the wind
changing – hear “I’m not even Capricorn!” spat
through a mouthful of smoke. I smile and go
onward, turn the corner and walk past
the scarecrow who stands there and begs
for some cash from each taxi. I hand him some change
and he thanks me, says “see you tomorrow”.
he grins and approaches some germans
who are jaggeding hostelward, directional home from the pub.
all windows are bright behind blinds hung with laundry
and throwing the shadows of jeans on the street.
we take the next corner – see men standing up,
sitting on windowsills down by the benburb st
bedrooms. a fox walks. some people look, others
don’t bother, like seeing a soldier in stars
every night. we come to the river then, low tide
in estuary and long honeysuckle stems
growing from cracks in the bridge. life is a thing
which appears all around you, insistent as music
from taxis at traffic lights, loud without passengers
just for a moment, paused and the windows rolled down.

 

DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as “a cosmopolitan poet” and another as “prolific, bordering on incontinent”. His work has been nominated twelve times for BOTN, ten for the Pushcart and once for the Forward Prize, and released in three collections, most recently “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022).