Conversations I had 30 years ago croon back at me from the walls.
All Bourke Street preens in its mirrors from the Paperback to the Hill of Content.
A strip of bank notes from a hundred different countries makes light of our cash economy.
Red vinyl stools consider improbable moves across the chequerboard lino.
This I know for a fact: that even severe cases of loneliness are soothed at the democratic bar
and that fumes of the coffee bean illustrate over and over the motions of virtual poetry,
while ― back in the miniscule kitchen ―
sheaves of spaghetti are turned instantly to gold.