On Coming Home

I reheat the leftover rice for one minute
and zap the tinned con carne for two,
then scoop the rice over the con carne and finish
the pair of them off in the blink of an instant
distraction as seen on the smart flatscreen boob.

I make it my business to eyeball the news
during dinner and call that my workday’s denouement:
Evenings are new days for taking a cruise
through analog music and internet ooze–
destination, blues bruising amusement.

Sometimes my TV turns on by itself,
I forget where I was and think, “There goes my cue.”
One tub from my freezer of two ice cream shelves
(no shelves in this freezer for anything else)
is wrapped in a tea towel and topped with a spoon.

The sugar guilt starts about ten minutes in
to the tub and by twenty the tic
and the toc of the clock are performing incisions
like calls from a Wasted Souls sales division.

I turn off the TV, retire to bed,
and fall asleep reading a book.


This jacaranda leaf with brief
appearance by your common fly
snapped with EOS-450D

–exposure time one-eightieth
and focal length at fifty-five–

on a Western Sydney sky
of blue last Autumn, in relief,
is brought to you by poetry

of seconds in their tenths
and millimetre lengths respectively.

*Written tonight in one sitting as a challenge to practice rapping the half rhyme with a deadline imposed for postage by bedtime.

Use it or lose it

The white golf ball on the bed of dove shells
beside the periwinkle in the abalone shell
that taken together form the paperweight
that stops my receipts from blowing away
while into a spreadsheet I transfer expenses
for months then a year nags at my muse
to from out of the shells and one golf ball
write something that reads universal.

By now I’ve decided it’s hopeless, but then
I’m hanging my clothes on the line and a crow
swoops in and pinches the golf ball!