A fog comes down between you and the world.
Words have to scramble through.
A dog’s breakfast of sounds.
Turning the volume up on the TV only increases the blur.
Why does one sense desert you when others
are intact?
Every now and then yr ears pop
and the world of sounds : leaf blowers.
crows caw, the Harley revving up
across the road, the postman’s whistle,
comes rushing at you with all its
clarity and clangor.
Jackson Browne, I say.
Who?
Jackson Browne, the singer. You look like him, like he was in the seventies when he was big.
I do?
Yes.
But I can’t sing and I work in a burger bar.
I know, but you’re finishing a degree in International Studies, right? You’ll be a diplomat. And you have his idealism, his energy. One thing though.
What’s that?
Don’t fade. Don’t go sanctimonious on us
I won’t, he says.
And looking at him, his floppy brown hair, chiselled features, slender build, alert eyes, I believe him.
He won’t.
I watched ‘Love on the Spectrum’ last night
about young autistic people
mostly in their twenties,
take part in the thrilling game
of Speed Dating;
& I thought how cool it’d be
if senior citizens,
marooned in singlehood
could be brought together for a night of fun,
under the one roof,
speed dating, meeting other single men and women
in a similar age group;
what a boost it would give to their lives,
what a night of fun
and who knows what good things might come of it,
what magical pairings
Look at that jetty’s
knobbly knees wading out
into the sea
“Bugger”, says Scruff. “Bugger”.
He’s back to his old intemperate self.
“What’s got your goat now?” I say.
“How am I supposed to get to the top branch now?? You know how I love the top branch. Someone took the tall ladder away and replaced it with THAT RUNT!!”
His wing is pointing at the little ladder against the weeping myrtle.
“Excuse me,” I say, “but you can’t expect the gardener to consult with magpies every time he shifts a ladder.”
Scruffy has that evil look in his eye.
“Besides”, I add, “has anyone ever pointed out those two appendages, one on each side of your body? They can get you places.”
“Sarcastic snob!” he snaps. “I use them all the time like you your legs. Aches and pains. I prefer to hop up rungs.”
“Have it your own way,” I say, but my heart goes out to him all the same. “I know what you mean,” I add. “I’ll speak to the gardener.”
I notice a little spring in his hop.
John Malone 