Captain Cook Hotel, Paddington

I’m out the front of the Captain Cook.

I stretch my hamstrings. A woman looks through the bin, talks to herself.

I run up Selwyn. Kids scooter the footpaths, parents supervise, drink from stemless Riedels.

I run past St Vincent’s. Patients wheel intravenous drip-stands toward outdoor ashtrays. Short-sleeved nurses laugh amongst themselves.

I run down Bourke. Clothes dry on fence posts, men sit on mattresses. A used syringe lies, upside down in a mostly empty Strongbow bottle.

I run past Boy Charlton. I squint my eyes and look across the dark grey water, where dark grey sharks wait for dark grey clearance divers.

I run toward Circular Quay. On the foreshore people hold hands, compose sunset-tagged shots of the bridge and Opera House.

I run up the stairs at Macquarie St. The lights are still on at my former workplace and, in front of that, floats a party cruise.

I run back, through the city, up Oxford, to the top of my street.

I breathe, put hands on my head.

Sydney smells like dinner and humidity.

I squint my eyes, look up.

Street lamps streak out, stretch behind plane trees.

There are bats in the sky and chewed up berries on the road.

My hamstrings are fucked, but the rest of me feels fortunate.

Map

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