Crack
Not the crack in the cosmic egg
Nor the crack addicts smoke
Not even the crack in crack, snapple, pop breakfast cereal
but the bum crack
of Mr. Hairy
at the Eye Clinic
when he bent over to pick up
a form he had dropped
his shirt rolled up,
his jeans slipped a notch or two.
Everyone copped an eyeful.
I cracked a smile.
Some tittered.
Mr. Hairy was oblivious.
*pic courtesy of pexels.com
M is in her cups.
Any moment now, the kookaburra cackle
the cutting off, like a hoon driver on the highway.
But for the time being I’m holding the table, telling the tale of the silver hammer beneath the front passenger seat of my car, what happens when my girlfriend spots it.
The little group leans forward, intent.
But it reminds M of something and she’s hyper now, jumps in, raucous.
This time I’m ready for her.
I took a photo today I’d like to show you. It’s for you, I say.
You did? Really?
Yes, I say, bringing it up on the screen, passing it across to her.
It’s what you do when you cut people off, how you make them feel. It’s kind of a metaphor.
She has a close look. Ouch,, she says. Lopped?
Yes, lopped.
It was like something from the Marie Celeste
the remnants of a meal — the last supper?
a half full stubbie of Fosters, tele still on:
‘A Current Affair’ with Tracey at the helm —
he never would have left Tracey in the lurch —
car keys still on the mantelpiece, signs
of a scuffle in the hall, the whiff of a cigarette
in the doorway but no note, nothing — and then
that call from the watchhouse:, cold & bleak
‘Your boarder, Adrian ….’
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
John Malone 