You can judge a new home by its boxes, its
designated car spot, net occupancy
of verandah space for washing.
Above a tricky lawn
I kill the news,
streams rise again
as my light & sails change.
It echoed at first, the acoustic smother that is stuff, our couches
are our quiet. That should be on the ads.
that everything here is me, the grumpy new keyboard,
unsea blue curtains.
Just enough sharp knives, too many pillows.
Heart patched with ore
affirm again despite
weariness bred of staring too long into
a succession of astringents.
Barracks for boys, I nod as we pass.
One has beer, the other has knees. . .
we pray for everything. A woman was here, we made
Open the bottle, I name this home Resilience.
The earlier huts maybe built for love or flatters,
none of that matters
I gather the tatters there
beauty in still standing & standing still.
People laugh when you say "Mortdale", nearly
drowns out the cockatoos. Tim reckons girls and poetry are
the only game in town. But it's no game so
how do we play?