Passing By

The sudden disappearance,
the flames, then the evaporation
the desiccation,
the fragmentation, the spicules, the dust
scattered at sea or more likely
at an intersection in the CBD.

 

That was where he worked:
each morning a cappuccino
from the same coffee stand
packed lunch – the coffee
the one luxury
he could afford.

He loved the sea
would have owned a yacht.
He’d take a bus from Kogarah
on the weekend to watch
the fleet sailing
near Middle Head.

Stutter and dyslexia kept him
in the most menial of jobs
in a large legal corporation
no family no friends to speak of
and then a week after
we learned his dog had died

he did not come in.

THE AGE OF SMALL THINGS

Old statisticians never die: their samples just get smaller

Houses revisited where

we holidayed confront us

with furnishings, magazines,

décor, beds and utensils,

from our world that pertained

when we were here decades ago,

surprise us with vivid replay memories

insecurely linked

to the passing trade

of now.

When we were thirty

renewed encounters with places

from our childhood surprised us:

trees once tall

had shrunk, the long mile

we walked to the shop as kids

for lemonade on holiday

was now quite short.

Ten years since last

I repaired our letter box

atop a garden post. 

Today it was askew,

screws rusted out.

This was not how I remembered it.

LOST FOR WORDS

How long had I known him?

Forty years or maybe more

I estimated.

 

Sitting opposite at lunch

his eyes stopped me:

I could not recall them

so bright, his skin so clear,

no trace of angst,

no elements of previous ambition,

 

conversation a little slow,

his stare, though happy, fixed,

fine movements missing,

mini-twitches, small adjustments:

were these the beginning

of Parkinson's Disease?

 

I was lost, though not shocked

when two days later

I learned that he had died.

PRENEZ GARDE À LA GUILLOTINE!

What ever happened on the way

to wee? Oh dear: so tell me when 

he sadly lost his head, this man

whose little body marks the door for men?

 

Who could have done this tragic thing

vandalizing by decapitation?

Poor chap would have had no interest left 

in his bowel or bladder function.

 

This was the old French way I guess - 

no messy bullets, mainlined medication

or electric shock – just a sudden 

clean chop finale to all meditation. 

 

It’s a warning to all urgent males:

take careful aim and do not let it drip. 

Woe betide the man who in his haste

undoes his zip and simply lets it rip. 

A small but quite effective guillotine 

is kept here just to deal with this

offence – details left to your imagination –

if you don’t learn precisely how to piss.

PASSING

The sudden disappearance,

the flames, then the desiccation

the evaporation

the fragmentation, the spicules, the dust

scattered at sea or more likely

at an intersection in the CBD.

 

That was where he worked:

each morning a cappuccino

from the same coffee stand

packed lunch – the coffee

the one luxury

he could afford.

 

He loved the sea

would have owned a yacht.

He’d take a bus from Kogarah

on the weekend to watch

the fleet sailing

near Middle Head.

 

Stutter and dyslexia kept him

in the most menial of jobs

in a large commercial corporation

no family no friends to speak of

and then a week after

we learned his dog had died 

he did not come in.

 

FIFTY SHADES OF GREY

for the fiftieth anniversary of the Sydney University graduating medical class of 1966

Lined up, we wait the starter’s gun,

we’ve come from the extremities  –

the fingers and toes – of the

places to which we’ve moved over decades,

awkward, grinning – maybe

we should not be here?                 

none tight in Lycra – hmm –

tattooed by age – sun spotted,

wobbly jowls and bellies, sagging cellulite,

yellow capped and crowned teeth,

titanium hips and knees, bypasses and stents,

hearing aids, surgical scars and missing bits,

pills for depression, hypertension, impotence

and the obligatory statin  –

we know the tricks of acquisition

and privileged consumption

of scarce resources for interventions

to keep old engines running.

Starter’s gun, but what about

the race we’ve run?

Who won?

How could we tell

and does it matter now?

What’s the nature of this race?

There should be a director

to define our destination,

explain our social purpose,

how fast we are to run

when to wave to grandkids,

how to vote, what to sing,

how to deal with super,

that sort of thing.

Looking down the track

toward its end

it seems quite short.

There’s a simplicity about the landform  –

fewer buildings, less traffic,

quieter people  –

through cataracts,

with dodgy maculae,

we see an Arthur Boyd horizon

almost empty, one

painted in his later years –

blue, blurred, and just possibly benign.

TO BOLDLY GLOW

Orange fluoro underpants hung
on a hook in the gym change room.
The waistband read Tradie –
others further up the food chain    
would boast Calvin Kleins, Bonds
or Chinese Armani lookalikes.

 

What kind of guy inhabits
these, I wondered
as the waist was narrow
unlike mine –
a plumber or mechanic.
in the gym working off 

an ache after last night's
celebration of whatever?

 

He sauntered in while I was showering:
I recognized him as the guy
on the bike beside mine
who was mopping up water
when I arrived so I asked him
if he'd any sweat left?
He’d dropped his water bottle,
he said and laughed –
maybe five years younger,
a whippet who pedalled
five times faster and further. 

 

Maybe he built racing bikes
by day and rode them, rejoicing,
on the road and in the sky at night,
nine-tenths naked so
his fluoro underpants would show.