Where is everyone?
Down Pitt Street I stroll,
Subsumed by the digital.
My earbuds produce
The sweet sorrows of old.
Neck craned, eyes glazed,
I'm practically blind.
Now my trek ends
At a paralysing sight.
Bridge by House, Park by water,
Here it is for me!
A steel and glass masterpiece
Where I shall spin my yarns.
Here by the Rocks and Museum,
Feet dangle from pier,
Words dangle from mind…
And a small piece is assembled.
i march for the auay,
for I have a bridge to see.
but first through town hall;
'such the misnomer!' thinks all.
here shan't we takl nor vote,
but shop until we bloat.
with chai in my mouth,
i begin to push south.
my chest is filled, my eyes are lit,
here I am in the street of pitt.
such an exquisite exhibit,
with me in the thick of it!
And just like that,
I'm clean out of rhymes.
I stroll back to Pitt,
For sweet spiced ambrosia.
One of many,
For the Quay holds more cafés than visitors.
But on the corner of Pitt and Martin,
Is one I hold close.
I return to digital blindness
Finding solace in silicon.
My legs arrive,
And my mind soon after,
Then I am in whole confusion.
No immaculate chai,
But store shutter and sign.
It declares this is the work
Of that wretched plague.
It wishes me well,
Prays I stay one point five,
Then abruptly ends.
Pah, a minor issue,
For one who cannot find chai in the Quay
truly is the greatest fool.
Perhaps not of my usual calibre,
But there nonetheless.
I turn around, and mutter one simple question:
Where is everyone?
Fear strikes me.
From the Victoria to the Bridge,
Not a soul marches the Pitt.
Not a Nike strikes its stone,
not an engine blares on through.
What a hellscape this is,
With me in the thick of it.
The Victoria is shuttered
So to George I stagger.
The towering monoliths flank me
To leave me open and closed,
Enclosed and exposed.
They offer to shield me,
They threaten to crush me.
A squeal greets my ears
Leaving me to cower,
But never fear,
For the tram is here.
Driver! I cry,
Scrambling for another soul.
Past the tint I gaze,
Much to my despair.
The seats are pristine
The grab handles are swaying.
Only the driver remains
But deep down I know,
He's as man as the sandstone.