Tuesday, May 24, 2022


Mex and I, we meet often

to do a circumlocution

of the periphery

after coffee at Redfern Park Café.

Mex usually has a ham, tomato and

cheese toastie and I have white tea

in a takeaway cup because it stays hotter

while we ‘strategise’.


We come prepared, Mex with silver glitter,

maybe, a gauze bow, a sprinkle of sequins

in her bag, me with stickers that

don’t really stick, and say things like

‘Save Waterloo Green’.

Mex gathers her bags and

I scoop up my arm-dog, and

we march off past Woolworthless,

and the Sally’s headquarters

for the Corporate Christ.


Our destination, corner of Pitt

and Albert Streets, we flaneur along

saluting the ibisery, loving Lucy,

trawling the path, her furry hindquarters

neatly nappied, evading Tommy’s

sermons on Satan’s eyebrows,

and reaching it, we reconnoiter.

Familiar things, the pretending-to-be-dead

frangipani, with cache of birds, the ivy

waiting to be artistic.


We like the new: today the black

hoarding has become a chalkboard

overnight advertising the inhabitants

of earth to aliens, should they be looking back

from the future. ‘We are friendly’

(mostly, the cat is a bit suspect though)

is the message, ‘but random and

meaningless’. Once the hoarding

used to be white, and before that just

ply-board colour.


There used to be a fence there once

and inside it, the Rachel Forster Hospital

for Women.



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