You live in an inner-city terrace
on land once walked by Gadigal people.
It is morning: you open the door
to collect your Sydney Morning
Herald.
On the footpath is a man,
under indifferent blankets asleep
despite the chill and noise of traffic.
He wakes, hands your paper to you:
you exchange a glance
his through half-closed lids of loss.
Do you owe him anything?
Shower and tea perhaps?
Think of your connection:
does not all human history testify
that the fortunes of geography,
set the agenda of our lives?
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