between the cracks

 

Melbourne downpour

means it takes everyone

hours to get home

 

I am safe and dry in my car

end of irritating work day

Restless and bored

 

Flicking through radio stations

I select the most popular

commercial drive team

 

There must be

a reason why

millions tune in every day

 

Within twenty minutes

I hear the drive team duo

a recap from breakfast

and a promo for the next show

 

Their voices are

hoppy beer on a hot day

creamy chocolate

a bubble bath for my ears

 

their words are big

fat bright shiny

glowing lies

 

about themselves

about the world

about the intimate

and down to earth relationship

they have with me, the listener

about how similar they are to me

and how far removed they are

from that mendacious

world of celebrity

 

Their lies

are so crunchy and

delectable

that I want to eat them all up

told with such brazen joy

that I long for them

to be true

 

Each lie is worth

more than my day’s entire work

ballooning their already

brimming bank accounts

inflating their already

elephantine egos

 

I drive on

the rain

steaming up

my car

I want to believe them

as much as I wanted to believe

that boy murmuring

sweet lies

in the rain

steaming up

his car

so many years ago

 

We want to believe the lies

but once you arrive

and open the car door

and step outside

you are alone

with only your voice

resounding

 



 Driving down Barkly Street

I wait at a red traffic light

and see

two men sitting on a bench

 

One – dark haired

and swarthy wears a blue shirt

leans forward

arms resting on knees

 

The other – blonde

with sweeps of grey

yellow shirt

smokes a cigarette

 

They do not speak

 

Two men of middling years

with lives that carried them

to this Thursday morning

muggy grey summer day aching for rain

 

With lives that will

propel them on again

once this brief pause

in their day is done

 

In my story

they are little more

than featured extras

a snapshot I will carry

            - until the memory fades

 

But for this moment

-         car in neutral foot on brake, waiting to keep moving

they are the perfect shape

of contentment



 

There used to be orange cicadas

 

green ones of course

their sci-fi heads

and chirping legs

 

but orange ones

I don’t know if they make them any more

 

there were wild plums

spilled and stained

on the footpath

we picked them from the trees

from the moment they were

just beyond too green

and risked stomach ache

by eating 1-2-3

 

I think there were

even black ones

cicadas that is

not plums

 

where did we find them?

secreted in the garden

wandering along window sills

they seem such a wild

and exotic thing now

but then they were part

of every day life

 

in sprinkler soundtrack

itch of cooch grass

wall climbing

bitumen burning

tin roof scrambling

white hot clothes line drying

panting dog

shimmer

 

and by the end of summer

we had a collection

of brittle brown shells

artifacts

trophies

weapons with which to

scare each other

finding them perched

on shoulders

creeping through hair

waiting in cool bed sheets

 

upstairs was hot and stifling

 

we all slept on the floor

in the lounge room

when nights got too hot

 

there was no air conditioning

just a brick house

with a slate verandah

and steps leading down

to the front path

lined with roses

that were pruned every year

and bloomed

 

and there were orange cicadas

and black ones too

they were special

enough to score points

but not so rare as to be worth

reporting to anyone

other than ourselves

 

not so rare

and yet I’ve not seen

a single one since

leaving childhood

 

do they make them that way

any more?