the street resembles a neck
from a wayward guitar
with Hotel Bone sitting idle on a vein,
wedged between two frets
where the bad tunes can reach her
these white stucco walls, I imagine, once carried a vision of pearl
now a gourd for asylum seekers
Iraqi, Indonesian, Sri Lankan
and one crazy Aboriginal... who lives with a typewriter
but not with the brevity of a visa on my head; no,
my longevity was guaranteed before I was born
in the 1967 referendum
the freedom to practice the voodoo of semantics
within the marrow of Hotel Bone
existence only 2 minutes walk
from some of the best latte lounges in the city
yet, white faces don’t come down here
until they’ve been classified, unfit for duty
no longer permitted upon the chorus line
of the cappuccino song
where multi-culturalism is in an airline format
first-class, business and economy seating
but those of us who submit to the chance of mystery-flights
end-up on the tar, of Hotel Bone
a haven from Saddam, Suharto, the Tamil Tigers
and One Nation
this Hotel Bone;
it is hard
it is reachable
it is home
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