A wicked smile flickers
he wipes his lips with the back of his hand,
crumbs falling like careless words.
The mullet catches light,
a halo of defiance
under the café’s striped awning.
He leans back in his chair,
street laughter spilling past,
steam rising from cups and grates alike.
There’s swagger in his stillness,
a kind of rough poetry
in the way he owns the moment
De Graves Street watching,
and he, unbothered,
watching it back.
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