Aisle Man.
I like to sit at the end.
The aisle seat.
At the cinema
concerts
church.
That’s where action heroes would sit,
I imagine.
Not in the middle of Row 22, for instance,
cramped on either side
like cattle in a truck.
No, Vin Diesel, John Wick , for instance,
would sit on the aisle,
close to the exit,
primed for action,
its sudden summons
like me
if only to take a phone call
or toilet break.
I like to travel in ambulances.
They seem such warm, friendly places
especially the Aussie ones shown on our screens:
‘Paramedics’ and ‘In the Ambulance’.
The ambos are calm, confident and chatty,
the ride authoritative but reassuring;
you feel you’ve landed on your feet
even if you are on your back;
There’s never any drama with these ambulances:
You scoot along niftily, the traffic parting
like the Red Sea for Moses; you’re delivered
efficiently as a package from Australia Post.
* I've never travelled in an ambulance; have you? * have you an ambulance story ?
*pic courtesy of Wikipedia
You are furry like a dog
sit at my feet like a dog
follow me around like a dog
always under my feet
but you don’t woof.
You are my slippers,
a handsome, friendly pair.
My ex never liked you.
She said I’d be wearing
a dressing gown next,
smoking a pipe,
reading cozy murder mysteries
in front of a log fire
but now it’s just you & me.
You often hear the phrase
‘let me slip into something
more comfortable’
as a prelude to sex
in steamy novels
but comfortable to me
means something else.
You can’t get into much trouble
wearing yr furry friends.
The sun levers me from bed .
Slides over the smooth rump
of hills .
Steams away the frost .
The cats desert the hearth .
There are a few embers left ,
chunks of ash
warm and marshmellow fluffy .
Not a ripple of sound .
Everyone’s asleep .
I put two logs on the ash ,
a tangle of twigs
and settle back on the cane lounge
waiting for the wood to catch .
Two dragonflies clamber over
the green scrim of curtain ;
a young magpie rests high up
in the fork of a scrawly gum ;
from the next farm the caw
of a crow ,
the baaa of distant lambs ,
overhead the sudden scraaak
of galahs ;
my stomach rumbles —
breakfast !
the grey slumbering Sloth
and Mao , the red burmese cross ,
in expectation of warmth
slink around the hearth ;
a flame stirs the stubborn fuel
crackles
sets this poem ablaze
We’re marching towards mid-summer now.
Midsummer can be murder here,
the heatwave capital of Australia.
I can feel the heat in its loins already,
smell its sweaty armpits
hear the swagger in its step.
I’m coming, he says, like a general
on the march with his troops,
heatstrokes and bushfires,
& his meddlesome minions,
mozzies, snakes, spiders,
outcasts from Eden.
Not looking forward to this
but at least there’s the beach to go to,
the air-conditioned palaces of libraries
and shopping centres, the reverse cycle at home
and, of course, beers with the boys!
Does my comfort discomfort you?
What would you have me do?
Lie on a bed of nails?
Put tacks in my shoes?
Quite early in life I was labelled a hedonist. I craved comfort the way some people craved adventure. It was my natural state. I mostly landed on my feet, things fell into place. This would annoy some people. I could see why but should I create a prickly existence for myself so others feel more at ease? I was feline. We had a cat who liked nothing better after a meal than to curl up on the lid of the rubbish bin and soak up the sun. I am like that though I prefer a mattress to the lid of a bin. But it does come with a cautionary tale:
Hedonist
Look at that little hedonist
Curled up on the bin
Better watch out the rubbish van
Doesn’t tip him in
John Malone 