The billboard at St. John’s in Glebe
exhibits two cadaveric upturned hands
holding Scrabble letters –
H and O right, P and E left –
background washed
in Prussian venous blood.
What’s the score for
the single mum this morning
reading the board as two kids hang on
to her en route to preschool?
No double letter square for her:
the dream dried up
a year ago
when he left the game.
Why offer what you cannot give
she wonders?
She crosses the street:
much better this jacaranda
she thinks, free of letters
and promises but generous
in its carpet of lilac sacrifice.
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