Bower

I take the longest walk home ever, via the bookshop, via the Indian takeaway, via the window of another bookshop, via a stop and stare at the screaming fight taking place between two thin young women hunched and teeth bared in school uniforms across the road from each other, via the pub, for a lemon lime and soda sipped demurely from the couch, while old men with sad eyes talk across tables about gravy and mash, about $2 schooner pubs, via the fruit shop for avocado, via a browse at the flower shop, to home. With the heat of summer against my black pant legs making me think of sunglasses and hats and wondering what happened to my sun hat and whether I will make a stand against crows feet with an investment in giant sunglasses, or whether I will continue to look up sideways through squint eyes at the glare of summer. The lime I chewed on at the end of my drink gives me a bitter fresh taste in my mouth, and provides the background to my other sensations – like sweat and glasses slipping slowly down my bridge; like the dry ends of my hair catching my eyes and making me feel dried out and messy; like the heavy rub of my bag full of books and mangos weighing against my fingers.
I walk and feel things, I bring them back like a bower, and I line the nest of my thinking with them.