Sitting in, say, Rossini’s at the Quay,
Or at the littered entrance of Bondi’s
Pavilion, you begin to scrutinise
The human traffic, which relentlessly

Parades, it strikes you, in self-parody
Its gamut of weird features, shape and size –
That stoop, that hirple, gross gut, bulbous eyes,
Piercings, tattoos. Soon that is all you see.

And as your face grows monstrous if you stare
Too long into the mirror, then betrays
Your secret bent for mockery and disdain,

So you find these, and so, you are aware,
A cruel pleasure seeps into your gaze.
Mere watching seems a wish to inflict pain.

Stephen Edgar