From Auckland

Late Night Jazz

Traffic dribbles across the bridge
Sporadic, like the last drops of milk being shaken out
over a bowl of cereal.

Drip. Drip. Stop.

It is late.
A red light atop the cityscape flashes,
beckons: Come Closer.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

This red doesn’t men stop, it means don’t stop coming,
but the cars in the dark take no notice.

Conditioned by years of stop-and-go
they are blind to difference,
as, wrapped up in their radios’ late night jazz
they cross still waters

Drip. Drip.

and are reflected without a ripple

Far, far below

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