outside the sex show palace,
a dreary tenement teased out
of its sullenness by the flash of
candy neon come-ons,
a carload of steroid boofs
leap out and race up
the stairs to bundy on
for the friday night long hot
shift, the A team in their
identikit satin bomber jackets,
renaissance men each at least
a spruiker-bouncer, perfect in this age
of multi-skilling

they rush to their workplace
with all the professional cool
of u.s. marines beginning an invasion
or of hitmen late
for a murder
their gym bags held tight in
a left or right fist
like doppelganger erections

in the time it takes
a junkie to spew
in the gutter opposite
they're back on the street
hands free, they head for the cappuccino
shop, walking as if they need a piss
but don't know it
while the daytime spruiker in mufti
flinty and snappy as an old cattle dog
holds the fort, barking ‘have a go have a go'
into the early evening crowd

in the window of the zorro café
they sit snug as chubby
babies in high chairs,
the cappuccino kids, sucking up
the froth rising high above
the rims of their cups like detergent
foam in a blocked drain