Third Bite of the Cherry

The ibises have moved along

have gone upmarket

grubbing in the well manicured lawns

of Davis Court.

Something needs to be done.

They look more dowdy than ever.

Reminds me of the time

in the Adelaide Central Market

during an upgrade

when the benches inside Coles supermarket

where I used to wait for my paraplegic friend

to do his shopping

were all suddenly removed;

What the &^%$$%, we all said,

our little community of bench people.

When approached,

management see – sawed for a while

but after constant badgering

a junior manager not yet used to the ropes

of sidestepping,

admitted — wait for it —

the benches were removed to keep

the riff-raff out

Warrior Princess

The Warrior Princess

You shouldn’t have done that, I say,

flushed the wee down the toilet.

Sorry, she says. I didn’t know.

It is one in the morning.

I can’t sleep, I say.

No wonder, she replies.

There’s too much light in the room.

But I’m claustrophobic, I say.

But it’s keeping you awake, she says,

drawing the curtains.

Sometimes you have to ride through your fear.

Get to the other side.

What’s your name? I ask.

Zena. I’m your nurse for tonight.

It’s a lovely name, I say. Xena, the warrior princess.

She smiles.

She’s Greek. I’m Filipino. Besides my name

starts with a Z.

Goodnight, John. Remember what I said.

I will. I’ll try.

I sleep for four bountiful hours.

I wake up at 4.38, bounce out of bed,

write three poems, including this one.

To me, she is still Xena, warrior princess.

• pic courtesy of pinterest

If It’s Not One Thing ….

I have a rare blood disorder.

I can’t remember its name.

It’s a long word beginning with W

and it’s not a cancer.

It’s an indolent disease that has taken nine years

to get to the stage where it needs treatment.

I’m having a bone marrow biopsy on Friday

to determine what needs to be done but it will involve

some chemo.

On top of this I’ve had a bad cold which really

knocked me around.

Cold sores galore. Unable to shave.

Is anyone listening ?

And if that isn’t enough I’ve got a lump

on my forehead, a conical angry lump

that makes me look like a Tod Browning freak.

People stare.

Booked in Tuesday with the skin specialist

to have it removed.

If it’s not one thing, it’s another

I wish you all good health for ’23.

*pic courtesy of pinterest

Is This How it Happens

Is This How it Happens?

He drove down to the Tobacconist to buy her some cigs.

There was someone new there today.

Yes? he was asked.

That’s when it happened.

20, 20 …..It’ll come to me in a minute.

But it didn’t.

He had forgotten the mantra. The words that come one after the other. He had forgotten the first word. If he knew that, the rest would come.

He had to drive back home and ask.

What an idiot, he thought.

It wasn’t as bad as forgetting the groceries in the shopping trolley then driving off without them.

That was ten years ago.

But it wasn’t good.

She told him.

Then he drove back and said it: 20 Classic Gold Signature, thanks, Red.

It felt good like rattling off a formula for the chemistry teacher in Year 12.  Or a soliloquy from Hamlet.

He was on top of things again.

This Time

This Time

I went back to the airport. This time I would do it. This time I would push on through.

The first part was easy, driving to the Drop Off point but once you got there, you had to keep on going. That was the tricky part. That’s where I messed up.

That time, the time I dropped my daughter off, I continued through , swinging around the roundabout but that’s where it got confusing, arrows pointing in all directions, a jumble of signs and always someone up your ass pushing you to speed up, for god’s sake.

That’s when it happened. A dark, chunky , sinister sedan pulled me over. It had AFP on the side. Australian Federal Police. An officer got out, walked up to my side window and tapped on it. I was packing it. What had I done? or more importantly what did he believe I had done. This was the age of terrorism. But did I look like a terrorist?

He questioned me briefly, took my license and walked back to his car. That’s when he got talking to someone. I assumed they were doing a police check on me, on the vehicle. All the time I could see him in the rear view watching me.

Finally he sauntered up to me, handed the licence back, and said I was free to go this time, but to be careful where I drove. What the hell did that mean? Where had I wandered?

That’s when I got the fear of driving to the airport to drop someone off or pick someone up.

But this time I did it. I made it all the way. History did not repeat itself. Woo Hoo !

Shrek

This is Shrek.

Say hello to Shrek.

As you can see this Shrek is NOT a fictional character

but real flesh and blood.

Nor is he green or ogre-ish.

Shrek works at the Stunned Mullet,

the best fish and chip shop in the suburbs

cooking and serving customers.

His real name is Srikanth and comes from India.

Workers at the Hilton near the airport where he used to work

contracted his name to ‘Shrek’ in 2016.

Srikanth loves it and has been called ‘Shrek’ ever since.

He is warm and amiable and has a wicked sense of humor.

When you get served by Shrek it brightens your day.

Too Close For Comfort

I had just unzipped at the left urinal when he took the one next to me, even though the one on the right was vacant.

We were shoulder to shoulder. We were that close.

He had bright orange hair like Mick Hucknall from Simply Red.

I hummed a few bars of “If You Don’t Know Me By Now’ just in case but there was nothing.

Hi, I’m Charlie, he offered.

Umm, I’m John. We don’t have to shake hands do we?

No, of course not, he said. You come here often.

Only to pee, I said. How about you?

Yes, much the same.

Then we both entered the zone, quietly exuding, self satisfied sighs.

We must stop meeting like this, I said wryly.

Then he zipped up and went to the basin and when he had gone I did the same.

This does not happen to me often. In fact, it was the first time which is why I’m writing about it.

Weird, huh ?

• pic courtesy of pinterest

My Bad-Ass Phone Call

 
Maybe I shouldn’t have made it but

the fish was under-cooked.

That apprentice! D said. I’ll haul him

over the coals.

have his guts for garters.

He’s overstepped the mark this time.

Don’t go too hard on him, I say.

He has a good heart.

A good heart doesn’t cut it in this

business, he said,

I’ll flay him alive.

It won’t happen again.

The next lot is on me.

And he hung up.

I know he was playing it up a bit.

Still, it would be good to see Jarrod

at the grill next week

in one piece.
 
 
 

The Mark of the Beast

Today I have the mark of the beast upon me.

It came up overnight,

It cannot be hidden except by a mask

But when I take it off, to eat, to explain a matter,

to simply breather easier, friends,

people recoil at the angry red rash

that runs from the tip of my nose to upper lip,

like birds before a predator.

I cannot shave so look doubly abhorrent.

I am only grateful for covid where a face mask

can be worn without question.

It is my close companion, my Linus blanket.

Will It Be Painless?

Is it any good pleading? Thompson says.

For your life? Not really.

But you can’t just toss me aside like a dog carcass, not after all I’ve done for you.

You were more than serviceable, Hunter admits. But you’ve served your purpose. You can’t argue with me.

Will it be painless?

Yes.

Well, get it over with then.

One minute, Hunter says.

He reaches into his satchel and pulls out his laptop.

Finish your drink, Hunter says. Out with the old and in with the new, he smiles, keyboarding fiercely.

He taps the delete button.

And with that, Thompson is gone.