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Stepped from wrought iron

with tanned feet, in suffocating boots.

Hit the pavement,

Kicking and scattering liquid amber hues and leaves,

and me shivering in the breeze…

Faced and smacked by faces, and faces and more!

Slapped by cold and skin colours and scarves…

No eyes. No sorrys.

Echoing through Central Station tunnel is beat boxing and drunk poetry,

and a rhythm shattering the ice beneath all our feet and those gazes…

I can almost see his words,

Pushed out the end of the tunnel, Towards the light, like music from a saxophone.

I breathe in coffee beans, so strong,

I’m awake before it hits my tongue, and I must stop

And I take out my pen…

My bag hits the pavement to the beat,

I smell urine and move on again…

I look up at a dark grey sky, I write the poetry in my eyes

and hit the save button, as I watch the beat boxers words float away…

A raindrop smudges the ink in my retina,

painting my eyes the same colour as this sky, that no longer matches my feet.

A gust of wind moves me and a straggled newspaper page hugs my jeans.

It reads;           Sydney…

I smile as the raindrop cascades

Down my cheek…

My poetry reads;

That tear is my heart

and this is my home.