by Suzi Mezei
The lithe dog is tethered to a post, where other lithe dogs with lineage
are also tethered under the lemon-tinted arches of a mall, where shops
and office space reach up towards sapphire sky, where humans prowl
in packs around the eatery on the second floor, sit in
booths where they can see the sea that changes from grey to aquamarine
depending on its mood, or they ogle the Colourbond rooves of holiday houses
built on the lip of a crumbly cliff that’s almost
as tall as the mall. Past sliding doors, the ladies swig coffee, get coiffed, buy almond
escargot; last week the smell of shellac engulfed the free-range butcher’s boy and
he fainted on a polished floor that was
once strewn with sawdust but life on the cove doesn’t work like that anymore;
it’s all upmarket out here; the gap-toothed draughty shacks on
sparse-grassed sandy loam are worth a mint,
a developer’s dream. Displayed behind tempered glass, tourists collect plastic
souvenirs, the shells that once cluttered the beach have turned their spiney backs
on the shore; today, a lithe dog who’s been waiting
forever, devours the scent of pulled pork and latte that drifts over on a brackish northerly.