… along
the drying nature strip
looking
for miniature moons
in
the dying couch grass, hoping
for
edible suns,
rare coins,
glacé
cake ornaments,
emeralds
and rubies,
old
school photos,
special
dispensations,
lucky
breaks,
windfalls,
fingerprints
of destiny,
faces
of the future.
A
Barmecide utopia.
He
wouldn’t really wish for the moon
It’d
be like living in Broken Hill.
His
face is as ragged as his
ashen
school jumper with the
green
and yellow
stripes
round
the collar.
He
has the winning Lotto ticket
but
doesn’t know it.
This
is where he lives
and
dies.
screaming with desire to have written this Robert, very lovely.
ReplyDeletethanks Kerri! it was actually adapted from a couple of lines from a short story I wrote, one that never seemed to work and never got published anywhere.
ReplyDeleteYou have such a way with the desperation of Australian suburbia!
ReplyDeleteI guess that comes from living in Canberra!
ReplyDelete