Passing Through Footscray
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,
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.