This Can’t Be Good

The people here are too nice.

So nice, they talk in smiles,

their words smoothed down like river stones.

Always no worries at all

like a mantra they chant to keep the dark away.

You believe them.

Until you hear the cracks,

the sly edge,

or maybe it’s just me.

Maybe I’m not fine.

But this… this can’t be good.

—

No problems, they say.

No violence.

No bad news -

just Perfect Patty on the evening news,

feeding little penguins by the shore.

And the possums too,

creeping through city parks at night,

their thousand young hidden in the trees

until dusk spills them out to feed.

Are they the only ones

who come out to feed at night?

—

Last week,

a man at the lights.

“Hello strippers,” he grins,

Wide enough to show

his bad teeth and worse intentions.

Amy tugs my arm.

“Don’t mind them,” she quavers,

her voice brittle as dry twigs.

“The local punks.

Boys being boys.”

No worries at all.

Like possums being possums.

Like Patty being Patty.

Like everything here

being what it is,

so perfectly,

it feels wrong.

This can’t be good.

—

Amy doesn’t show today.

Not like her, but

Girls in my line of work?

We drift,

we disappear,

no worries at all,

just strippers being strippers.

—

Except I think I saw that man again.

At the tram stop downtown,

waiting for the night tram home.

Then on the corner by my block,

a hoodie tucked in the shadow.

Was he the one in the park today?

I don’t know.

—

The coppas sip latte,

and nibble their pie,

"Move along," they sigh,

their smiles as dry as their replies.

They found a shoe by the pond, you see -

a single white pump.

Then by the bush yonder, its broken pair too.

Everyone owns white pumps.

Even I have two.

And so did Amy.

No one knows

what happened to the girl,

whomever she was.

—

Still no word from Amy.

I thought we were friends.

But this city swallows friendships whole.

No worries at all,

just the city being the city.

—

The street is too quiet,

the shadows too long.

It’s time to go to work,

to the strip club,

to the walk through the park.

The possums are out.

It’s their time to feed.

Seems like night

is when all beasts come out to feed.

—

There’s no one around.

The city is too peaceful.

This can’t be good.

—

No worries, right?

Can’t be anything bad.

No problems at all.

This can’t be good.

—

And I have to walk

through the park,

past the pond,

into the dark.

.