Peter Bakowski

 

 

City workers during morning rush hour, Collins Street, Melbourne, 2012  

 

Peter Bakowski

 

Perhaps not fully awake you exit Parliament Station, alight from trams.
E
xpected you are— to join the ballet of the brisk.
R
ebel by sitting on a park bench. Such a luxury may incite a
S
cowl on a passing face. Reading the
O
bituaries in The Age may distract, you’ll learn how many times a certain
N
uclear scientist was married. This knowledge of a more troubled life may
A
llow you to take a break from painting the town grey.
L
ook up at the bird-borrowed sky. It’s not raining rats and tarantulas.

What a gift is hunger. Because of it your ancestors left their caves,
E
xplored plains, valleys, rivers, seas. Their
A
dventures became stories, paintings, songs.
T
here’s the story of each person, on the trains, trams, street corners.
H
ow vulnerable you are, how strong you are. I want to reveal your
E
ssence via the camera of this poem, as you swarm and
R
ush in the business district, glance again at wristwatches.

 

 

 

Follow us on LinkedIn