Where is everyone?
Down Pitt Street I stroll,
subsumed by the digital.
My earbuds produce
the sweet sorrows of Lennon.
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 Quay,
for I have a bridge to see.
but first through Town Hall.
'Such the misnomer!' thinks all.
Here we neither talk 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 my 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.