Holiday

Perth from above is a cockroach
It sits there, brown and laconic, and
The micrwave of summer can't shift it.
With its suburbs, like legs, twitching intermittently.
You fly in our rivers
Dried and stretched like junkies' veins
Wells and dams punched around them.

Suddenly, on the ground below you
All you see is water.
With the populace
Congealed at the edges of the Swan
Scuttling among the sand.