There's a crack in the footpath
I take a step to the left
Not out of some, hazy memory of movie inspired madness
Or some symbolism of self inflicted sadness
But there's a crack in the footpath and the crucifix is broken on the steeple.
And I wonder if it's significant, or if it is a reminder of a disaster.
Probably some God's angry lightning strike, or some incompetetent bronze caster.
Whose biblical commitment mirrored the outlay of the institution.
The section after "for sale" has columns for prostitution.
Where "Angel" and "Miss Nice" have services for a price.
You have to make ends meet, and for some it is the street.
There's a roast meal on Fridays
But I've never been.
The weeds grow wild outside the taxi radio rooms
And the nightclub that's hosted legends, has closed and is for lease.
I heard the old owner sold "e"s and is soon up for release.
The bells toll 9am but the sandstone is chipped and broken
And the cafe is closed where secrets were once spoken.
Female politicians, whispered suspicions, of various positions.
The new building is green but painted black and grey.
The parking inspector loves the smell of fresh ink on glass.
Well they can kiss my .......
The designated nature, imported from afar
is gated and signposted with monkeys in a jar.
And I'd swap everything for a day driving the blue train
around the paths between the trees especially if it rained.
The smell of cooked hops from the brewery fills the air
the perfume of industry owned by our friends over there...somewhere.
Capuchio, two sugars, real milk, large with two shots
In those paper cups with perferated edges that keep it all hot.
Pass the promotions store with your name on a hat for two dollars
And an obsure door that leads somewhere, those who enter have collars.
The day begins and cracks are still there.
The crucifix is broken, but no one seems to care.
