Bird bones and slate stones,
Found objects in temporary homes,
Pristine inside the gallery walls,
Safe between the leaves of the museum brochure.
Representations of nature,
From the comfort of the city,
Telling us we want to be outside,
Four stories above the traffic and the talk on the avenue,
Still, I listen. Condensation between the glass,
The fire escape window’s draft, whispers the distortion is real.
As the setting sun paints the windows yellow,
On the other side of the street.
A low flying plane sings a high pitched song,
Above the low bass hum of Hector’s S.U.V.
A motorbike, snare roll, 1,2,3, 4!
An Introduction to… nothing,
Car door thud, a nearby engine revving,
Everybody with one eye on the door.
Your nearest exit may be behind you,
This next plane, a wheelie bin,
Dragged slowly across the roof of the low sky,
Just to piss off the neighbours below.
Two sirens, toylike, their batteries past their prime,
stutter and sigh, unsure or unable to decide,
If the passengers are worth the panic?