134

Upstairs on the bus
smells of swimming.
All wet hair and chlorine.
It’s cold outside.
Condensation is building.
A woman in green says:
Christmas tree dumped,
baubles n’ all.
In a moment we will
round the Cape Horn.
Slip down the sails,
in a stop-start progression.
Leaving behind those
mid-morning dippers.
Evaporating all the way
to Bayham Street
and beyond.


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