Brian Purcell #7 Homage to Bea Miles

Homage to Bea Miles

Prince Alfred’s pool is closed

but filled with water

a line of seagulls crowds its edge

schoolchildren at a carnival

struck miraculously dumb

Here I spend shrunken lunch

half-hours in an oasis of dry grass

beneath a metallic stalk –

a towering light’s heavy disk

casting its shadow on my face

At a concrete table in the park

two travelers

have lain their heads on a table

like infants given permission

for a sleep break

Stiff-legged high school children

on a makeshift volleyball court

move like embarrassed observers

that have strayed uncomprehendingly

into action

Commuters are drawn in and erupt

from Devonshire Street tunnel

to congested laneways

Burroughs’ nightmare

of a double orifice

I’m confronted at the ATM

by a being with a manic smile

gap-toothed crystal methkids

are succeeding the sleepy

smack generations

You blink and suddenly

personal trainers are shelling

tennis balls at wide-eyed girls

determination

and fear in their eyes

recreation a cut-throat activity

Bea, you would have chortled

I see you landing gleefully

on the hood of a late-model

blue Lexus sedan

and follow you down

narrow lanes

regarded by hidden

cupboard terraces lost

behind sheer factory walls

A breath away

temples to the right to shop

rise on Broadway

where Bohemian is a type

of designer crystal

Regarding me with a healthy sneer

you administer a dose of Shakespeare

and beckon me into a taxi

you once commandeered

to Uluru

And you are who? she guffaws

Everyman, I smile

trying to make a crust

before I turn to dust

She kicks me out at the Quay

At Mrs Macquarie’s chair

perched on a rock I accrue

a multi-million dollar view

I could be a billionaire

with each turn of my head

Clouds float past

like dumb, fat babies

on a tidal rock shelf. They open

their bud mouths and speak

with the clarity of emptiness

but true freedom’s back

with the hobo in that taxi.

There’s a penny in my pocket

as I stretch back and wait

for illumination that may never come

I stumble back to the office

abandoning to the millionaires

their Streetons of pure air

Who will sponsor gestures

from the hoboes of light?

Who will smash

our rusted routines

hijack our sad taxis

kickstart our dead hearts

in the chambers of the Philistines?

No more will you Bea

the agitator of our enzymes

kneeling by your sick-bed

I take blood to transfer ardour

into our time’s restless slumber

Don’t give up on the world!

Throw your bulk at the manikins

resurrect the shenanigans

that earned you the hate

of the guardians of the state

Free living atheist

with a two-way bet on god

On your deathbed

hurling yourself

at the glittering surface of heaven

Back at the pool the seagulls

are waiting – for what only they know

– yet they will wait until

the concrete turns to sand

and the water becomes the sea.