an orange candle

between improvised meetings and emails I pay a stranger to ask about my habits and health. an hour of his time could feed a village of the children starving through the famine on my phone. I watch these demons I feed freely leach away at figures that could do much more for someone else. embarrassed and controlled by strings I’d tied and read as choice. I think of the man on the street wrapped in old jackets. the city ebbs and washes over as he sleeps beside an orange candle in the cold. 

the drivers change at Mitchell St, with one heading home as the other clocks on for the night. an exchange of keys and words I can’t hear beyond the house of cards. the incoming driver is smiling as she boards and locks herself in at the front of the tram. we’re moving again and I hide from the reflection in the window: a stranger to the city and myself.