in silo

I am a child of this city.

I walk in its busy air
I sit wrapped in blankets in its parks
Sleep for a brief hour of mourning on its benches
Slip my toes in its mud
Meet with its people
Breathe with its urine-stained stairways
Escape its foresty borders
Learn its etiquette --

How quickly I have conformed to non-conformity.

I write with its cyclists
Set sail on the land
Camp in Aotea Square - but not in protest,
Just 'cause

Some of my bumper is fraternizing with the narrow offices-come-parking buildings.
I roller coaster down the motorways
swerve, crash, survive
I block up the roads
with my emergencies, my democratic right

I give birth to the next generation.

I sit sheltered in the light of the SkyTower
Putrid orange
I am,
The cliche:
A "Jafa", and reveling in it

I am running the concrete suburbs
Listening to local music
Hastily side-stepping Margaret's ghost
Small-faced gait
Straight ahead

I am the minority.

of hand-held gestures
and held-held devices
and hand-held love

Every inch of my travels begs a
specifically-selected soundtrack
Piano, when outdoors
Violin for in
I drink my wine atop Mount Eden
and my coffee in St. Kevin's
My daily, fortnightly initiation
Parnell Chocolate Treat, the locals'
show-off for visitors
Which even there (a milky treat parlour)
accommodates this city's
"diet aware"

We are
almost
partly --
not quite,
really
Twenty-Four Hour Operational
(less so if we are not bin-scavengers)

I am a child of this city
You will find my placenta in the trash.