Whitmore Square, SA

I love crossing central parks after hours
             and glimpsing shy possums’ pink snouts
             silently nibbling on their fallen fruitloots
in the stark shadows of rich and menacing
             fluorescent-emerald morton bays
             dangling beards on the forest floor
           
we all tune in to the music of flying fox MCs
            protesting the intrusion of occasional traffic
            with cackling and shamanic scare steps
to shoo the ghosts that should be sleeping
            away from taboo nocturnal realm
            where foreign folk aren’t welcome 

this is our party time and we can cry
            if we want to or dance jerkily like
            no one’s quirky under aster-canopy
jovial mood blanketing the ambiance
            within soothing space of soft safe tones
            the mob gets to remember this is home