Swanson Street is yawning
  the pubs are closed
  street-lamps flicker
   cabs are waiting in rows-

  some revellers are drunk
to  Flinders Station how they struggle
a woman is singing La vie en rose
a bird is chirping on a church steeple-

a sudden gust descends from nowhere
it sweeps discarded papers and debris into the crispy air-

a hungry and mangy dog scrounges at the bin
it's pitiful and finds but a banana-skin-

under the lights of Princes Bridge
a few tramps and vagabonds are asleep-

at this sombre hour why am I still wandering?
Time I've lost count of, sitting on a bench in poetry-writing