Swanston Street

I got off the tram, I was off my face. The man lay there, dead still. Still dead. Lethal dose.

Blue and white tape sectioned off the stairs where he lived. Where he died.

Sirens and cars and men in warm coats descended upon the scene at night. Neon flashing from over the road projected signs of hunger and who can’t afford to eat.

His friends had long left, chasing the dragon. Bereft.

Now who should know about this scene but those who were there, stealing glances obscene. No channel 9 news. No vans with long aerials. No news to no-one. No story to tell.

Media: a medium between these damp dark streets and home fires burning. Don’t let him in. Not even now. Got no room for a body. Got no spare change. But got my 2 cents.

Street near a river. A river sans swans. Swanston street.

2 comments

  1. I am addicted to reading this one. Powerful stuff, love the play on words and I get a very intense imagery.
    Love it. Thanks for sharing your talent/gift/story!

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