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the yellow line


Hello Sunday Polaroid of Roma Street Station

My feet were a-teeterin at the line, tappin on the wrong side, just darin, darin the vested guy at the end of the platform to come down and holler. Hoy, he’d say. You toe-prattlin crook, why not have some sense? I’d look at him and nod. Oh yeah, I’d say. I’d stare him down and extend my arms out in front of me, into that perilous pit of space, wave them about jocularly, a little precariously. Hoy, he’d call again. Hoyhoyhoy. Back up, you danger-caperin delinquent.  My ankles would be writhin, slippery joints all over the place. I’d push a hip forward, and then the other one, anticipate a jive, a jig, a two-step boogie. He’d be after me then, me and my enterprisin limbs. But the train would whoosh on up and I’d be three steps ahead already, already over the yellow line, crossed into the field of daisies. I would bang on the button, summon the doors to open and make a flyin jump into the carriage. I’d be on my way to Darra and not no one would stop me.

Find out more about this Hello Sunday jaunt.

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