In Flagstaff Gardens, Melbourne’s quiet green,
a man stood pausing in the late-day air,
a fork raised like a small, earnest compass
guiding him through a container of nachos
golden shards catching the light
as if the sun had scattered them by hand.
He wore summer lightly:
a T-shirt soft with miles of wandering,
shorts brushing the edge of breeze,
and in his back pocket, a bottle
tipping like a secret he’d forgotten to hide
a small companion clinking with his steps.
Around him, the city hummed
its unhurried evening hymn:
trams sighing, leaves whispering gossip,
pigeons pacing like old philosophers.
But he ate as though nothing else existed
each bite a quiet devotion,
an edible peace,
a brief, gentle proof
that a moment can belong entirely
to one person,
one fork,
one mouthful of nachos
in a garden holding its breath.
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