On a cold Wednesday afternoon at a farmer’s market.
Enter BOY and VENDOR:
The rain is plopping,
drip,
dropping,
Colours of people,
Slide through the street,
On the concrete where they eat,
He scoops with a big metal ladle,
“Five dollars please.”
(I sigh as I hand over the money.)
My hands are drippy,
Sticky,
Hot chai seeps into my fingers, my eye.
(I say my prayer – to Centrelink.
The papery form that gave me this world.)
A sip, a dip.
Of the paper cup
Running, running, through the raining streets.
It is spicy, but it is sweet,
The flavour stays in my mouth,
Long after the heat.
(I tip my empty cup.
It is all gone.)
Exit.