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This Thursday morning, bright and warm,
half- past eleven of the clock,
the gardens past their Summer best.
A youngish man of no apparent abode
seeks shelter among the ornamental shrubs.
Not yet mid-day, and his day is done,
he crawls away from the constant path,
to lie hidden and homeless, in the
shadow of that eminent place of
Art and beauty.
He has the sense to hide, to spare our
feelings, we strangers with the awkward gaze,
A gaze we find embarrassing, no place to
look, except away, nothing to do, except
dissmiss, as we walk on . . . not looking back.
Close to The Art Gallery N.S.W. 15th April 2004.
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