SYDNEY

The living, primordial Gadigal sandstone of Sydney
erupts from the ground at random like a cockatoo’s
hysteria as I stand looking at the shining
stacked white crockery of the Opera House
drip-drying by the most beautiful
kitchen sink in the world
and finger the lurid and soiled
local Monopoly lucre in my pocket. From the tenth
circle scruffy white ibis and Vietnam vets
cry out for baksheesh and never wonder
why the Cyclops on Guv’ner Phillips’ fountain
is binocular. O you seductive trollop of a city,
bicentenarian hooker who’ll still buy you a drink,
dedicated to hedonism and money (though
for many in the city that’s the same thing), the first
taste is always free.

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