worlds most

This grey, this persistent grey. Streets of concrete meet skies of cloud. The top of the world is close to the ground. The monkeys of Bourke Street make black and white faces at their reflections. The tram stops every three minutes, an elephant in tight brown pants emerges tusked and angry slams through the middle and sits half on my lap. He smells like straw and grease and sweat even though it is barely one degree away from freezing out there the mere struggle to move has given him great pools of elephantine sweat under his arms. He doesn’t repulse me, why should elephants be more repulsive than the sleek coated monkeys, with their preening eyes seeking out anything that will stop for five seconds long enough for them to catch a moment of themselves, my own eyes are enough for them. Monkeys and the twittering tittering peacocks, and toucans the bower birds and the budgerigars noise coated colourful baubles in a too close room. The tram is small and fetid, hot breath, smells of fur and hide, small lice covered wings touch beaks, a brief flash of bared teeth as something young treads on the toes of something mean. I try to see out my window but it has fogged up, I wipe and outside the rain smashed footpaths bleed into the street. Hooves slip and fur matts, umbrellas fight the necks of giraffes for space closer to the sky but there is so little there that they rest themselves upon each other. What would seem a sweet embrace if it wasn’t for the rain.