The Saturday brunchers congregate on Latte Laneways, where
everybody waits to be seen among the hip and the loud. 
There's a strange kid in a black beret waiting for life,
painting the scene in his mind and never speaking out;
But in vain, because the silent are passed by or absorbed
into the crowd.

Makunda's kitchen serves up a spicy dish, from some place
more exotic and noble and proud than here:
To a midday stoner returning from some place far out and a
good-time girl with teased up hair.
"Got any change?" comes a voice from beyond the great
divide- 
He speaks out of time with a poet's grace, but nobody sees
the glorious street scenes locked up in his mind;
He wanders off with a drinkers swag,
Sad for the busses all passed him by.