An infant howls
Summer's night is hot
a life below their eyes.


Door bangs shut then open
attention is grabbed
who is a star to whom?


Woman on the footpath with a plate
it looks like corn chips
no offer of oranges today.


Whore with red-light
both bathed yellow
tempted not in orange-wrap.


I stared at the eyes of a stone duck
black painted pools of nothing
and saw as much as it.


If I wore funny hats
or swam with sharks
would I be a better candidate
than some-one whose sleeve was adorned with hearts.


Regret might want to swallow me up
but on days like today
when it rains
I'd rather be here than juggling my room around leaks in the ceiling.


On a good day I can see all the channels
with Tarzan lost in the jungle amidst warm rain
the Civil War rages on into episode 5
with Johnny Reb recalcitrant
with leg raised and lapels clutched arrogantly in his fists.
The tennis goes backwards and forwards over a net
and then over again almost interminably.
The yachts bows dig deep into the swell, impelled by a breeze.
Aboriginal grandchildren a century on talk of grandmother's pride
long dead warriors pose in a show of immortality.
The tennis goes on
backwards and forwards.
Promises of riches can't sway a wife away from a husband whose only want is an ice-cold beer.
Beautiful country won't make a home to one who fell beside another
whose poetry remembers it all.
And the tennis goes on
though now they rest beneath umbrellas and drink at water as icy cold as Tarzan's compatriots beer could ever have been.
From a crow's view the yacht cleaves it's way through a swell that runs only slight.
Cavalry is counted on for intelligence
as if horses told it all
supposedly alright like brand new wagons
while mine rests here all but 5 years old
on a good day
when I can see alll the channels.