Bourke Street flowed in monochrome streams,
Full of errands, coffees, private dreams.
One woman marched like she owned the lane,
While shoppers drifted through summer’s plain.
A man with a beard and thousand-yard stare
Walked as though taxes were everywhere.
Near the shopfront sat quiet defeat,
Ignored by the rhythm of moving feet.
And overhead Melbourne stretched its shade
A city of people, perpetually delayed.
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