#100 Kevin Brophy 'Melbourne in a minor key'

In Melbourne the city cat has breakfast then has dinner.

Noise is just another way of saying we're still here. 

Car doors open onto cyclists. A woman lighting up

a smoke says, it’s the North she’s missed, and

the best restaurants have moved to Preston. 

Gutters of kicked-up brittle leaves know it’s autumn.

My son beside me is on Facebook too. 

The car has several new scrapes, the gate has too. 

Back yard fig trees have just stopped fruiting. 

The cat sits on a tiger rug by the door thinking 

about the orange tom that acts as if it owns the yard.

Two girls trail behind their mother down the road

outside a flower shop past a pale blue Vespa

balanced on its reputation for style and poise and sputter.

Rain whispers through a shining city lane. 

Someone says, no one here’s to blame.

A newly moody sun manages to sift light through mist

as if still paying some skylord the monthly rent.

Michael Kirby’s making legal jokes with law students 

slipping in the odd sly comment 

on how human human rights would be if we shifted key.