September turns perilous. Orderly oBikes take all known
cards. Their seats are glossy as obsidian. They are reassuring yellow, spinning
down springtime boulevards, ride the dappled dappledom. But all is not well in
paradise. They rent the fabric of decorum. They are left on stairwells and
cubicle apexes. They are flaneurs with intent. “They’re layabouts!” spouts
Mayor Windup-Clock, “Get them off the footpath!” Rumours spread. They’re feral,
fly at night over rooftops, scaring our beloved fruit bats. They dive bomb
Albert Park Lake. oBikes eat up space. They’re drones, countless, their yellow
is ‘significant’. They transmit signals in unbreakable codes.
No comments:
Post a Comment