Poems about cities #4: Wellington

Some days I love this city.
In spite of myself.

On a muggy day,
hot enough to wear a tank top
but not so sunny that my skin burns and fizzles,
I sit on a bench in Cuba Mall,
book in my lap, but I’m not
reading I am watching people.

There are drunk guys who sit
in bunches and play guitar
until some cop arrives,
black baton and shiny cable ties
hanging off his belt like a threat,
and moves them along.
But even the Racist Colonising Filth
can’t distract me
from the sad truth that, in spite of myself,

I love this city.

That night standing lost
in a bar crowded with scenesters
– and I am terrified of scenesters –
but it is ok, because I am
content and confident within my terror.

On the balcony at the San Fran,
my waist bent over the edge my
neck arched coz I can’t bear to miss
a single second of this city my
arms outspread like I am
about to take flight above this city’s
rooftops. Right now my heart is bigger then my rib
cage. It is so full of affection and somebody
else’s beer that it overflows
spills warm lager down my intestines and into my
empty empty belly til it too, thinks it’s full.


And I know that I LOVE THIS CITY.
Helplessly, mindlessly, defencelessly.
In spite of myself.

 

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