waking with the self (still)
an unanswered alarm raucous
with news of our golden athletes sunk
‘neath a mountain of dumped bikeshares,
and promise of a thorough inquiry
as if that could evince some sense that
the whole thing wasn’t a complete cock-up
and that time isn’t a flat black disk
and that we aren’t flies dancing
an afternoon already.
‘And why is it any business of yours?’ my mother asks.
Even though she’s been dead these dozen years,
while I have grown old myself, still she corrects
drinking that old cracked cup.
Image: Coogee beach, NSW, night, c. 1929, Sam Hood (photographer)
– State Library of New South Wales (I have no idea what they were up to).
Peter Frankis writes 
I’m afraid I relate too closely to this eloquent piece, Peter. Time is, and we are (beautiful those lines) and I’d love to go back to when the world wasn’t our business; just the neighbours, the street and school. The aliens will make notes about an articulated species inhabiting the ancient tidal zones.
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Thanks Steve, sadly yes. there’s a wonderful poem by Brazilian poet Angelica Freitas addressed to the aliens: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/58659/microwave
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My pleasure, Peter. Thanks for the link, yeah, the Amazon is a tragedy, pamonha or not.
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