Maybe it was me
maybe it was her
it was some time ago
a bit of a blur
We both grabbed it greedily
we held it for a while
life lowered its fangs
put on a smile
But she had her demons
I had my ways
we were on different pages
in different plays
Maybe it was me
maybe it was her
it was some time ago
al a bit of a blur
[in honour of National Cookie Day in the U.S]
I used to give my Sydney Morning Heralds
To the Cookie Man
for his customers to read;
they’d devour the weekend papers with their cookies and cappuccinos
and dream
of the Harbor City they’d visit one day;
and I’d go away feeling
I had spread some wealth:
the Saturday supplements:
Food, Fashion, Film, Fun —
The Land of Plenty
& the Cookie Man would give me
the thumbs up;
Then one day
He was gone,
The whole edifice had crumbled
Like a cookie.
Now my Sydney Morning Heralds are looking
for a new home
& I miss the cookie man
This is Rumpole.
Rumpole is a plaster of Paris statue of a real dog that wandered away nine years ago and never came back.
We tell tales of where he might have gone, what mischief he got up to and the puppies he might have sired.
We still think one day he will find his way back home which is why we leave the side gate open.
Meanwhile the statue is comforting. We know he’s not really there
But every Halloween he cocks his leg and pisses on the pavers to remind us he still is
If you see Millie, let me know, she says as she retires for the night.
I will, I promise.
So I watch the program I want to see
then watch the program I do not want to see
going outside to check during the ad breaks
rattling the tin of biscuits, calling out her name
but there is no sign; and the stars have come out
and the moon glows knowingly but remains tight-lipped
so I go inside to watch another show I do not want to see
going outside at intervals, rattling the old biscuit tin
looking for the cat that does not want to be found.
The flower withheld its perfume
the sky withheld its rain
the road its destination
the labour its aim
She had taken away the love
life’s poetry and rhyme
Had taken all the flesh
left only the rind
He thought
Their love
Was rock-
Solid
Not
Made
Of
Papier mache
Flimsy
As a
Piñata
To be
Smashed
Open
That day
* picture courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Meg is wandering again
in smaller and smaller circles
driving us round the bend.
What is she thinking?
She worries the others.
A few days later
when we let her out she begins
circling again until
she huddles beneath the bird bath
and will not move.
We shift her.
She crawls under a bush
where she’s hard to reach.
The cat who often bothers the chooks
leaves her alone.
That night it rains and rains.
In the morning she’s bedraggled.
Dead.
I lift her into the earth.
There isn’t much of her.
The chooks settle after that.
So do we.
John Malone 