Strangers

Returning from my father’s house
red-berried branches scratching 
the deck, a hand on your collar
the white guy hunkered opposite
scowling. A stoner sparks
an incense stick and the meditative
sky is soon puddling the city
into impressionistic fragments. 
Second Life is no place to live; 
still we talk of its islands.
The world’s terms and conditions
who the real winners are if any
no one knows. Yet, a Converse foot
on the seat rail, I see bushes
kneeling under rain, penitent passers-by.
Braking at the lights, a kid steps out
plastic umbrella in one hand
printed in bold on his t-shirt
Just Chill. We’ve no rainproofs
when our stop comes lope for shelter
shadows glancing street-lit walls.

@ianjmclachlan