The M31 From Leppington
We’d forgotten the curfew, our group of three. So, we rushed on the motorway, needle at ninety. The rain was white with car-beamed light and the road was ours on this parentless night. High on the vibe of a road trip eighteenth, we squealed out songs from a playdate thirteenth. At eleven-forty-five we were still on the road, rowdy and raucous and freely not home.
Day Seven
The last lingers of deadlines and dawns washed down the drain.
The sunburnt backyard deck in sleepy suburban stupor.
The first sip thawing deep and rich, its lively fingers spread wide.
***
And so, Clarissa Dalloway crosses the road.
A Collectable Coffee Spoon
On my kitchen counter is a
collectable coffee spoon.
Its markings bear echoes of acanthus leaves on
Corinthian columns,
moving up the marble,
to meet the cornice,
mingling and slithering as I
stir my coffee.
24 / 7/ 20
antique keys,
golden twine,
gaslit room,
prairie night,
coconuts that clop
from a remote soundstage.
gypsy tune,
dampened moss,
braided roots,
rushing blue,
pop love bound
in an austen-like cover.
it lingered like a tattoo kiss.
Eighteen
The key to their closest is a bottle of beer.
Beneath the public dress (the daily prayers and
Sunday best) prowls a skeleton-shadow
they’re anxious to suppress. But, at ten past
ten on Sunday’s eve, post-takeaway KFC and
the vowed sober atmosphere,
that skeleton-shadow springs unfortunately free. It swigs the
VB and wets its lips and steals sexual kisses
from yesteryear’s split-up. The now-partner
screams with righteous jealousy and, as
yesteryear’s split-up becomes this party’s hook-up,
they see themselves
in a sidelined saucepan,
willingly dressed,
in their very lavish,
Saturday best.
- September 2021