Rundle Street
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Pavement's still dark from the rain that fell last night.
Lady's got her jacket, waiting for the light.
Rundle Coins, purveyors of medals and of notes,
Sleeps closed while morning workers wander by in coats.
Traffic rushes through the lens, in silent day commute,
Street player finds his corner, shining up his flute.
Sixty-seven people, sitting miles from one another,
Move the camera's eye to watch a crossing mother.
Remotely, watching windows, watching cars and watching crowds
We make this dread connection, speaking only up or down,
Together share the sunrise, share the store, the silent song,
Spying as the streetsweeper passes us along.
The coin shop opens, as does Ted's, located next door;
The moving lens records, and returns here never more.
All hail Australian mornings and what the camera sees!
I sit alone and wonder: who is watching me?

7/9/98