Passing Through Footscray

A Western suburbs poem

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash

Old brown sacks lie like dead dogs,

lumpy and unmoving while

empty chip packets skip past

on the footpath.

Diesel fumes shiver in the hot air,

huge semis brush cars into the gutter

squishing them like small flies.

The roar of impatient motors fades

into the cacophony of commerce,

bartering, squabbling,

picking over squashed fruit,

a deafening band of butchers

spruiking meat and wetting harsh throats.

Hot pavement smells beat their way upwards

mingle with souvlaki and chilli beef soup.

The river, sluggish and salty, seems

too far away, too still,

its scummed surface

perfectly reflecting the industrial edge.