I thought I’d sit down with it
Knock back a few beers
Chew the cud of all those years
But I couldn’t get into it
I couldn’t be bothered
I just wanted to get out
No tears, no recriminations,
Start a new life
Go on perhaps my last adventure
A modest one but still.
The blossoms were out
And so was I.
I wasn’t over the hill
When people down the track
Ask me, how was it?
I’ll say, read this poem.
This is how it was.
That mangled text
Shot off in seconds: such
Just bear with me, the voice on the line said.
Your call is important to us.
I don’t know how many times I’ve heard this
Over the past few weeks:
Librarians, telcos, clinics, call centres
In India, Thailand.
A phrase without borders
I have always done as requested.
I have borne much.
There should be a medal awarded:
The Order of Infinite Patience
Whose recipients would be many.
I can imagine St. Peter
Perusing the names of the recently dead
And, on coming to mine, say,
Just bear with me. I’ll be with you in a moment
Before checking my details
& letting me through.
Spent all my life looking for this, he said.
It hasn’t worked out. She goes her way, does her thing. She gives me only four days a week.
Are they good days?
Yes. But I want more. Total commitment.
You like wine, don’t you?
You know I do. What’s wine got to do with it?
What’s the one wine you’ve always wanted?
Grange Hermitage, of course. It’s the best.
You ever tasted it? Bought a bottle?
Ever berated a bottle of red for not being a Grange Hermitage? Ever stopped you drinking other reds?
Of course not.
Then let it go.
Let what go?
Your obsession with S. Or should I say your possession. You will never have the S you want. Enjoy the one you have. Allow yourself to be replete. From what you tell me she is a very, very good red. Stop thinking Grange Hermitage.
Back and forth the fly darts across the windscreen like black thoughts inside my head, floaters before my eyes, distracting my driving. It won’t get out. I’ll fix you, I say as I pull in the driveway, wind the windows up and pump in the fly spray, the little Nazi inside me quite pleased with itself.
It had been a splendid evening but now, rankled by some recent memory and loosened perhaps by a little too much wine, he leaned across the table and made a cutting remark. She began to bleed almost immediately. His words raked across her wrists like a suicide attempt. She began to deflate in front of him. She had to learn not to take things so literally.
I want to photograph the galahs
clowning on the bare limbs
of the Norfolk pines
but the buggers won’t keep still
racing around like particles
inside a Hadron Collider.
Just as you line up a couple
They’d be elsewhere.
All I needed was a panoramic shot
But then they’d be off
Across the river, raucous as a footy crowd..
Better off snapping flowers,