Canberra Morning

Morning: such long shadows
Like low-bellied cats
Creep under parked cars
And out again, stealthily
Flattening the grasses.

At the bus-stop
A flock of starlings:
School-children, chatterers,
Swinging haversacks,
Pulling ribbons.

The driver's got a book by
Sartre in his pocket,
He wears dark glasses,
Listens moodily
To the Top Forty.

Life gets better
As I grow older
Not giving a damn
And looking slantwise
At everyone's morning.