I did not know it then, that I
would stop the drinking, meet a
brown eyed European,
make a child, stay within
reasonable proximity; none of that
seemed likely as I lay on my
back in the low springy bushes
along the intersection crossing
points of Fitzgerald Avenue. It was a
few hours after I’d started
on finishing the left over drinks. These
had withdrawn quicker than I’d
realised and the room was loudened
by the scratching knock and
groaning sounds of poems beached
on the dry sand and reefs
of uncomfortable low tide.
And The bottle store
across the road wasn’t open yet. I
had an admiration
for the collective of the shrubs,
the contoured unity
of the surface, a green
soft moss colour, they supported my
weight like an old spring mattress.
A man, who then was my age now,
stopped to ask on my condition.
The shrubs held me like jelly,
I could start a wriggle and
would continue jiggling.
The blue hot morning sky
screwed down around me.
A woman wheeled onto the
footpath the Open sign.
The boats had their sailor
float them off the rocks
and float them out, beyond
the truth, on tides of malted falsities.