The Roofs of Queenstown.
I can look all day at the metal roofs of Queenstown
like Jacob, wearing coats of many colors:
this one matte black like my Cruize that beat
the Monaro at the lights ; that one on the corner rust red,
the colour you see striated on the tin roofs of settler cottages,
the one just built, Tomahawk with its brash of burnt umber
and my favourites, Blue Balm, and Winnipeg Fog,
the two beside the park that calm and soothe;
I raise my hat to the metal roofs of Queenstown,
stylish and stately hats worn on the heads of houses.
the breeze is slurping my face
like Bella’s pink dog tongue
when sick, I slumped on the sofa
I’ve made the place neat and tidy just ramshackle enough
so it looks lived in
*pic courtesy of pinterest
I wake up suddenly
stunned and panicky
like a ‘roo caught in the headlights
of a big rig
an eighteen wheeler
tunneling thru the darkness.
My senses are all rinsed.
I leap out of bed
into the hysterical light of morning
pour myself a coffee
settle back into my little
skew whiff home.
- pic courtesy of pinterest
So what do you do in there? You’re in and out like a flash.
In that short time? Where do you wash?
Oh, you know, in the immortal words of The Yardbirds: Over, Under, Sideways, down
Lola’s in her basket.
Tiffany’s in her tank.
I wouldn’t want to sleep
out. It is cold and dank.
Soph is in her frame
that sits upon the wall.
She is twenty eight forever
and loves us all.
The food lives in the bread bin,
the pantry and the fridge.
It is there to succour us
that we all may live
Don’t be in a hurry, the buds tell me.
Open when you’re ready.
What does it matter if others blossom
Remember the gulls
how they fly in loose formation over the sea
how there’d always be some bringing up the rear,
It’s not a race as our Prime Minister said.
They get there in their own sweet time.
Like my teachers said of me, you may be slow, John,
but you get there in the end,
It’s okay to be a straggler.
I’m on my own again.
My partner’s hit the sack.
The cat’s snuggled up in her basket.
Tiffany’s asleep in the tank, light out.
Even the mozzies have called it a day..
There’s nothing on TV.
Perhaps someone will text. Someone …
Is this what it’s going to be like?