Civil Twilight

Emotion scoops the footpath’s velvet edges,

estate agents’ bluster calibrates the street’s

livability, treeless, ajar with fridges

bunked out. Investors wave sheets

of sums to air, a tiny computer chalked

on glass, loving the artist’s marble noose

in adjacent pop-up gallery they might’ve forked

out for, but didn’t. It was no use

crying now though her vale of tears candies

a conquest, with stuck name tag and good insurance

that barely cost a sou. A countdown into space

echoes, blue lorikeets flit the race

and pigeons chew the eaves for reassurance

over suckling locals and tourist dandies.