FLAT WHITE:

In 2013 they met in a coffee house on Berwick street,
the village boy & the boy from Oz. Both a little older
than when they used to own these streets, when everything 
they did was regarded with wonder & heralded as blessed. 
They chuckled, one to the other, “Still here then?”, 
laugh lines pointing like arrows to the light in their eyes. 
The coffee was too strong for so early in the day, but it’s 
perfume hit the spot as they planned the road ahead. People
came & went, new faces, new lords & ladies, confident
& full of it as they had been. The coffee boy behind the
bar played his mix CD, he was that kind of retro in his
style, with a tight & tiny beard, de rigueur for the day. 
The music jarred, but no one noticed, only the village boy 
& the boy from Oz. Supertramp broke out of the speakers 
the rasp of a distorted harmonica unexpectedly turning into 
rich green cubes of spikes that progressively expanded into 
the tiny shop. The boy from Oz didn’t see or if he did he didn’t 
let on as the village boy flinched to avoid the violence of 
the sculptures threatening to impale him against the wall. 
Just as he was about to shout “Oi! turn it off for God’s sake!”
it stopped & the violent structures disappeared, replaced by 
the hiss off a chromium coffee boiler as steam curled down from 
the ceiling like phantom surf & they were wrapped again in 
soporific aromas.

(K)